


these bountiful silences

by tommoandbambi



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Animal Death, Complete, Dystopia, F/F, Future, LOUIS AND HARRY DO NOT DIE I PROMISE, M/M, Slow Burn, They can only say four words per day, my blood sweat and tears have been put into this fucking fic please respect it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-21 10:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 123,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6047662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommoandbambi/pseuds/tommoandbambi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> they live in a world where they can only say four words per day. harry meets some people that don't want to live that way.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Wow oh wow!! I can't believe that I am finally posting this fic on here. I have published it in a few other places and received a pretty good reception, but I want to edit everything before posting each part on this site. 
> 
> I'd like to thank [destiny](http://baesilaesthetic.tumblr.com/) for being one of the most helpful betas ever and [marina](http://kosmicgirl.tumblr.com/) for making me a lovely gifset and this fic [trailer](http://youtu.be/s2JFdBWMKoU)
> 
>  
> 
> **DISCLAIMER AND COPYRIGHT:**  
>  _my portrayal of all of these characters are independent from the actual people that the names are derived from. I do not own one direction or any of the other names used. I do, however, own my characters and my own plot. I plan on publishing this as a novel with name-changes, and would respect it if no one stole my idea. DO NOT REPOST THIS ANYWHERE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION, PLEASE._

**prologue**   
  
**_ PAST _ **

For the first eight years of his life, words were crammed into Harry's mouth. He was given lists, dictionaries, tutors, and multiple audiotapes of someone just sounding out words. At first, he didn't understand the reason why words were so important, but he never questioned it. He just soaked in the words like a sponge, letting every word that he received be hesitantly repeated from his own mouth. Every word, every meaning, was pressed upon him, forced into the forefronts of his mind. He knew how to describe how he felt in so many ways, but he never questioned this phenomena, this is just how he was expected to act.  
  
He didn't see the genius in this until his eighth birthday, when he was wheeled into a large white room filled with the sound of monotonous beeps. His arms were strapped to the cool bars that encased the side of the stiff bedding. He remembers how his small heartbeat was thundering in his ears as he stared into the bright overhead light.  
  
"What's happening?" he had asked no one in particular.  
  
The woman that instructed him to refer to her as Superior just spared him a wane smile before stabbing an injector into his forearm. He remembers how his body thrummed with pain that day; how he stared at the woman with a tight smile and tired eyes and thought sardonically that he never really liked her.  
  
"Hello, Harry," a disembodied voice reverberated in the room suddenly, quickly frightening him.  
  
"Hi," he responded shakily.

The light was causing spots to form in his eyes. A cold sweat was forming on his forehead. The foreign voice chuckled, somewhat manically, and confusion roared through Harry's veins. He had no idea what was happening around him, or why his Mum had even sent him to this inordinately sized building in the first place. A woman in white pressed a ventilation mask over his nose and mouth, and a languid presence began to pass through his veins, filling him with a foreign brand of exhaustion.  
  
"Why don't you count for me, love? Just say some numbers," the voice instructed.  
  
Harry's eyes started to close drowsily, "Why?" he asked, words slurring.  
  
"Do it while you have the chance."  
  
Harry was scared, and his head was pounding, which was a new experience. He cleared his throat before shakily counting. "One, two, three, four -"  
  
"There!" the voice interrupted him with a shout, "That's the magic number. Do it one more time, Harry."  
  
Harry counted to four again, clenching his hands from where they were strapped down against the bed. He had no idea what was happening to him at the time, but he just listened to the voice and their vague instructions. His vision turned black, and truly, he was not as fearful of what was to come as he should have been.  
  
;;  
  
His family rarely talked, and he couldn't understand why. He just figured that they disliked him; but when he finally turned eight, he understood. It wasn't because they didn't want to talk to him, it's because they simply couldn't.

He had sat in the plush seat of the Superior's hovercraft, turning his wrist over and examining the plastic that had been embedded into his skin. He had seen the familiar silver bracelet before, on the wrists of the older kids and on most of his relatives. He thought it was this cool object that one could only get when they have matured fully enough. He remembers how excited he was to go home and show his sister, Gemma, the plastic. He had ran his small thumb over the screen of the bracelet, tracing the digital ' ** _04_** ' there, mouth stretching into a small smile. He had no idea what the number he meant, or what this small, seemingly insignificant number, would cause.

Once the Superior had parked in front of his house, which was just a slight thing with white shutters and oversized windows, he had ran into the house. His small feet led him to the kitchen, where he stopped to show his wrist cheerily to his mother who was standing over the hob. "Mum! I have one -"  
  
His mum turned around, and her smile vanished from her mouth quickly as she sat down her bowl and gazed at him woefully. Harry's mouth kept moving, but nothing came out. He felt like he was being insistently stabbed with a needle in the back of his neck, and his throat kept releasing a desperate, wheezing sound.  
  
His Mum's eyes were swimming with tears as she hugged him. It was foreign, this sudden contact between them. They were never close, seeing as she hardly spoke to him and the only physical contact that he received steadily was from Gemma when she would slide her hand through his curly hair. She was warm, with an earthy scent that invaded his senses when he pressed his nose against her bare collarbone. It helped take away the pain that was niggling at him each time he opened his mouth to silently ask, "What's wrong with me?"  
  
"You've used your words," his sister's voice came from the doorway; she had walked over to them and pressed her hand against his small back, rubbing in small, gentle circles.  
  
"My words?" Harry wanted to ask, but a soft wheeze came out in its place.  
  
His mum detached herself from him and rummaged through the left cupboard that he wasn't allowed to go into. She pulled out an old scribe and grabbed a stylus before beginning to write furiously onto the device that Harry learned how to write his first words on during his schooling.  
  
She passed the scribe to Harry quickly; trying to give him enough time to read it before the scribe automatically erased everything. He smiled in thanks before skimming his eyes over it.  
  
' _H, look at your wrist. That's the reason why we sent you to HQ today. Once you've turned eight, you are only permitted to say four words per day. The counter keeps track of how many words you say, and once it reaches zero, you are unable to say any more words, or else you'll endure physical pain for just trying –_ '  
  
The words disappeared before Harry could finish it all, but he got the gist of it. The metallic band that is around all of his family members wrists wasn't a privilege for adults and big kids like how he always thought it to be. The big red numbers were taunting him because they knew how long it was until he faced true pain of not being able to voice what he wanted for the remainder of the day.  
  
Harry picked up the stylus and wrote two simple words: _I'm scared_.  
  
;;  
  
The day that everything changed was the day that Gemma was taken away from their home.  
  
He was only fourteen, his hair had just grown past his ears in wild curls and the routine of having to weigh each word's importance carefully before uttering out a single syllable was trivial by then. Everything was so simple that day. It began with his mum nodding at him in greeting as he sat at the kitchen table in the morning. Gemma had pulled at one of his curls whispering, "Byechick," quickly in his ear, saying the words in a rush to where the counter only took down one word even though she really said two. His dad had given him two apples for his school lunch before leaving for work. It was normal, mundane even, and he was never prepared for what would happen once Gemma had disappeared back up the stairs for her scribe.  
  
Then, without warning, five men in starched white uniforms came bursting through the door. They didn't have any bracelets on their wrists, but they did have white helmets sat over their faces. Harry had sat up, running into the entry hall curiously as one of the men turned towards his Mum, who was frozen in place.  
  
"Where's the girl?" one of them demanded. Mum pointed up the stairs silently.  
  
"Imbeciles," another man spat. They had all rushed up the stairs.

Their boots made clomping sounds that rivaled a herd of buffalo. He listened, heart pounding as Gemma's petrified scream echoed through the thin walls of the house. He watched stonily as the men wrangled Gemma down the stairs. She had kicked and screamed, desperately trying to escape. The men called her "a bloody Unconformist" and tightened their hands around her flailing form. Harry tried to grab one of the men, but they just pushed him away angrily, forcing his small form to run into the table that lies in the entry hall. Pain tore through his back, and he screamed for them to let Gemma go. Until one man placed a white square on her neck, and then they vanished outside of the door.   
  
Harry used all of his words on Gemma that day. Weakly trying to make the men let go of her. Even when he was out of words, he still made angry wheezing sounds. Simply because Gemma was his sister, his favorite person, and it was not fair for them to just take her. He had sat in the shambles of the broken table for hours, his elbow bleeding from the splintering wood. He stared at the rubble around him, tears filling in his eyes when he noticed that the digital photo of Gemma had shattered from his fall.  
  
;;  
  
His Superior came to their house weeks later, mouth set tight in an angered smile as she led him to Gemma's room and sat him down at her desk. He had forgotten how much he detested her, but he was quickly reminded of his hatred as she grabbed one of her scribes and unlocked it like it was her own. He wanted to grab the scribe from her hand, to yell at her for sitting on Gemma's bed and ruining the way that she had left things, but he doesn't. He was taught at a young age that Superiors are untouchable, and that he should always respect them no matter what.  
  
"Did she teach you anything?" the Superior demanded from him. Harry shook his head. "Did she do odd things? Such as slurring all of her words together, something of that nature," the Superior persisted, pacing back and forth.  
  
Harry paused, because Gemma did do that, but, was that worth taking her away? It was not like she was doing anything illegal by stealing more words into her count. She just began to do that in secret, at times, and Harry never questioned her. It only seemed normal that she would want to say more. Be more. Gemma has never put herself into boundaries, and he was well aware of that. But, he did not want to end up like Gemma. He didn't want to be carried away from his mum; from familiarity. Coward, is what his heart spat at him, he should've defended her, but he couldn't. Not when a Superior was staring at him sternly, assessing his every breath.  
  
Harry had reluctantly nodded in agreement to Superior's words.  
  
"That's what I thought," the Superior put Gemma's scribe into a white satchel that rested against her thin side. "Your sister is going to possibly have her tongue cut out for what she has done, and she isn't coming back to you."  
  
"What?" Harry asked, his vision swam then, and he felt like the world was spinning relentlessly until he couldn't feel the ground beneath his feet. "Why?"

"She was an Unconformist, and she might've been forming idealist ways to rebel against The Movement. The Movement is the only way this world can function properly. The Movement keeps people from people like your sister. People like Gemma want this world to be filled with war and famine. She was poison to the best way this world can survive."  
  
Harry did not want to believe it, his sister was good. His sister was perfect.  
  
"The Unconformists used words to plant ideas in everyone's brains. They lie and act kind in order to have people gain trust in them before they manipulate them to do their bidding. They probably lied to your sister so that she would try and spread their toxic ideas. She would've gotten hurt if it wasn't for us coming in to save her."  
  
He nodded and looked at Gemma's desk. There were multiple scuffs on the wood that could probably tell several stories, like the one time she stabbed at the desk with a fork because Harry made her so mad when he broke her scribe that she got for her tenth birthday. There was a scorched mark from where she had accidentally set a part of the desk on fire. He had stared harshly at the desk, sitting there quietly until the Superior was gone and the unrelenting sun had set low behind the line of evergreen trees that encased their backyard. He opened up the desk's drawer, finding an old digital photo of the two of them.  
  
The familiar feel of nostalgia had overpowered him as he stared at the photo, where their smiles had been frozen permanently in place.

He doesn't want her to be gone, even if she was poison to society. Gemma is his sister, and he can't let her go. Not when she was the only one that ever cared for him.

Harry had curled in on himself, heart feeling like a falling star, and let the waves of his sobs crash over his small frame. He didn't want her to go, but at least she was in a better place now.  
  
;;

**_PRESENT_**  
  
Harry sits down on his worn couch that is in the precise middle of his small flat, bones and eyelids heavy with exhaustion from his long day. He turns on the telly to some documentary program and moves a throw blanket over his lap, catching a glimpse of his bracelet as he does so. A broad ' ** _04_** ' still sits on the metal that is forever embedded into his wrist. The moon is rising to dance in it's place in the middle of the stars, and Harry's cat, Dusty, is weaving slowly between his legs. He watches on the telly as the camera pans over to show several people lined up with white chains around their wrists, and the white squares called silencers that takes away someone's ability to say any words at all. He watches as the narrator talks about how all measures must be taken to keep Unconformists from ruining the fabric of society that The Movement has implemented. He can't help but think of Gemma, of how he screamed for his sister to not be taken away, but they took her anyways. He knows this world is messed up; that something's wrong with the way that Superiors exercise power over civilians, but he can't question it.  
  
Gemma's empty room is filled with cobwebs gathering on her scribes, and empty water canisters that no one wants to move, and it will stay there, forever untouched. Forever a symbol of how she existed in their world and brought her rebellious activities into their home. But he didn't want to say anything about how Gemma being taken away might be wrong, he didn't even want to think about it. Instead, he sits in his flat, alone with only the blue light of the telly and his cat. The Movement runs programs promising that this is the only way that society can function without becoming war-torn once more every single night. The only way that they can keep from reverting back to a violent world is to keep the civilians from saying more than four words per day. He forces himself to try and forget Gemma, to forget how he could have possibly seen her as innocent. He wants to stay optimistic, to stay loyal to The Movement and the life that they have so graciously given them.  
  
"This is our lives now," a slightly familiar voice says on the telly, forcing him out of his train of thought, "and it's all we can ask for. If you look back at the past, we are by far the most peaceful time the universe has ever experienced. The Movement only stands for one thing: safety. We limit the amount of words to cease the chances of violence. The Movement has helped us progress from the Dark Ages and into an era of white, of purity."  
  
Harry picks up Dusty, running his hand over the matted fur while turning the words over in his head relentlessly. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the couch, the words "This is our lives now," echoing in his mind. He isn't sure if this world, a place where people can be taken from their homes and words can be forever severed from one's expression, is the type of world that he wants to reside in, but he doesn't quite have a choice. Harry searches blindly for the remote control to turn off the telly, the voices cease and he's cloaked in the darkness of his flat. He should probably move to his bed, or at least take off his shoes from the day, but he just sits on the couch and tries to force himself to push any thoughts of Gemma out of his mind.


	2. i. hazard

  
  
Harry remembers when he was first assigned to his job.    
  
It’s a law that every single person must go to The Movement Headquarters during the first six months after they've turned eighteen. From what he had heard before he went, everyone is being watched and assessed over the course of their lives, and The Movement takes in their mannerisms and asks questions about what job they will be best at. Then, at the end of the course, a person would be assigned their daily task for the rest of their lives. They also get a microchip equipped with a dining plan, that’s installed in their home software, that best goes with what is to be done daily based off of their answers to the questions. Nobody can change the occupation they are given, as The Movement knows what's best from their analysis of everyone, and they factor that with what would best benefit society as a whole. It's how peace is kept, or summat.    
  
From what he remembers, Harry wasn't exactly dreading the day he went to Headquarters; his mum seems happy with the job she has, and so does his father. He’s sure Gemma would have been fine with what she would have been given, too. So, when his Superior escorted him to Headquarters years ago, she had instructed him to dress in his best kit, and she even had some sort of a smile threatening to form on her thin lips that morning.    
  
"You're going to go to the third cube and sit in the chair," she had said, "You only have to say your last name."   
  
Harry nodded, they were taking a sleek tube to Headquarters. The windows were blacked out, but he could tell they were moving fast from how it felt like he wasn't really moving at all even though his ears were popping from the sudden change of speed. He remembered what Gemma told him about the black windows, "Nobody knows how to get to Headquarters," she had written into an old scribe one night when they couldn't sleep and he was still scared of the long shadows of the night. "Because if someone knew, it'd be easier to find them and attack."   
  
Harry cleared his throat, his Superior, with her tired crows feet branching from the sides of her eyes - probably from how often she squinted while staring at people like she was reading them in just one long glance - pushes him to walk forward with a strong hand. 

  
"Go to the _ third  _ cube, Harry," she said slowly, emphasizing its importance.    
  
He thought about what would happen, for one impulsive second, if he didn't go to the third cube; if men in white suits would tackle him to the ground and cut off his feet or something for disobedience. He nodded to Superior's words instead.  _ I shouldn't be thinking like this _ , he thought, his throat had felt tight. He straightened his shoulders and tried not to think at all.    
  
Headquarters was everything that Harry expected; stainless steels, spotless glass, and an overabundance of pure white. He worried that his shoes would leave marks from where he subconsciously slid them against the floor. (They didn't). He could tell who the Superiors were, seeing as they were the ones encased in white, crisply ironed kits, and the guards were toting white tasers in their hands. He remembers how he felt like everyone was eying him, waiting for him to make a mistake and show a sign of rebellion.    
  
"Third cube," his own Superior mumbled under her breath before walking towards a large set of double doors marked in red with ' _ Superiors Only _ ’, leaving Harry standing alone in the throngs of people, civilians and Superiors alike. He felt his chest loosen as soon as she was gone. His Superior made him apprehensive, like he was scaling a thin rope between two high flying hover boards.    
  
The cubes were just that -- glass cubes. Each one had large white desks with people clad in more white sitting behind them. Their postures were impeccable, Harry noted, and they all had their hands folded on top of their scribes; each one an eerily mirrored image of the next. The massive glass encasements around them were almost undetectable if it wasn't for the gleam of the fluorescent lighting striking the glass along with the way that none of the voices carried from outside of the desks. It was alarmingly quiet in the whole lobby, even though there had to be at least a thousand people in there.    
  
Then again, it's quiet everywhere. Everyone is constantly saving their words for something bigger, better, and more important for later on in the twenty-four hours. It's quite nerve-wracking, the seconds before someone decides to say something, there's always this merciless mantra of questions that evades Harry’s mind before he says something that can be accurately summarized in one inquisition:  _ is this word worth it?  _

  
He had swallowed over the nerves that were forming in his throat and walked over to the third cube, a tight smile sitting stiffly on his lips, almost like he was trying to silently get across that he's not trying to cause any harm, and to please disregard him. He feels like there's a red target always sitting between his shoulder blades; warning everyone else that he was the brother of an Unconformist, and shouldn't be trusted. A door he didn't notice slid open as he neared the cube, and a petite woman with her hair pulled out of her face smiled at him tightly.  _ Everything is so tight, cold, and cryptic, _ Harry noted as he stepped into the cube. 

  
"Hello," she said, her pleasant smile vanished as she unfolded her hands so that they could hover over a sleek, new scribe; a model of the tech that he’d never even seen before. "Your name?"    
  
He cleared his throat and she readied her fingers over the keyboard. "Styles," he said.    
  
The woman blinked at him, but didn't press down on the keys like Harry expected she would. Instead, she just folded her hands back over the desk and smiled, less coldly now. He heard the door whoosh behind him as it shut. He shivered.    
  
"Mr. Styles," she said. One of her fingers were clicking against the desk in a sporadic beat. "I've been expecting you."   
  
_ Me _ ? He wanted to ask. He didn't, though. His bracelet already read  **_03_ ** , and it made him anxious.    
  
"You already have an occupation assigned to your name," she asserted.    
  
_ But I haven't even been screened… How do you know what fits me best _ ? He felt like crying. This isn't what he was told would happen.    
  
"You should be  _ very _ grateful, Mr. Styles," she said. The glass door opened behind him once again, and he could feel the air leaking in from the lobby brushing the nape of his neck. He felt like the air purifier was mocking him with its steady humming.    
  
He nodded, because who was he to fight anything that someone in white told him?   
  
"Your Superior will explain everything," she stood up briskly and held out her gloved hand. He shook it slowly. His mind was racing because nothing was making sense; she had only asked him one question. "Have a good day."   
  
His only thought as he had left the cube and walked to where his Superior was standing beside the exit was the low voice of the television announcer's voice declaring, “ _ This is our lives now.’” _

;;

"Mister Harry, do you know what my favorite color is?" Lux asks. A stray piece of her blonde hair is falling in her eyes. She doesn't pay it any mind, though, so he doesn’t either.    
  
Harry leans forward, elbows resting on his desk, shaking his head slowly. He lets a smile take over his face, and the small girl stands on her toes so that she can look properly over the white surface. 

  
"It's grey," she whispers, eyes blown with excitement, almost as if she’s buzzing with excitement because she’s just shared a life changing secret.    
  


He raises one eyebrow, nodding for her to go on. 

  
"My mum say it's undeshined," she tells him, "that it doesn't fit in anywhere, but it's weird without it."   
  
"Undefined," Harry corrects. His bracelet number is  **_‘02’_ ** now. There are still a few hours before sunset and he can be sent home from work. 

"Yeah! That! I like grey,” Lux smiles and blows her hair away from over her eyes. “Hey, Mister Harry, do you know how old I am?"   
  
He doesn’t have any chance to answer, because she is already squealing, "Eight! I'm a whole eight years old!" 

Harry widens his eyes, feigning surprise even though he is well aware of her age. Every child is just turning eight when they walk into the glass doors of where Harry works. He is the receptionist for the part of Headquarters that manipulates the word amounts of individuals. He has sat through many birthdays with small, clueless children, watching as they spend their last moments being able to say as many words as they can; soaking in each desperate last syllable with an eerie knot of dread forming low in his stomach as he realizes that these kids are about to have their lives forever changed. He shouldn't feel bad, this is the only way that society can function peacefully. It's just a bit sad that children have to be victims. 

  
"And today's my birthday," she whispers once again, her pudgy hands making minuscule marks on his desk. She clutches her hands against the pristine edge, using the desk to hoist her small feet up in the air.    
  
"Happy Birthday," he says, glancing down at his wrist.  **_‘00’_ ** , and the day is not even over. He doesn't feel any trace of regret, though, because he feels like they were two final words well spent.    
  


"Thank you, Mister Harry."    
  
He looks down at his scribe, studying the small, smiling picture of Lux in the right corner that is paired along with all of her genetic information. He tries not to wince when the elevator doors open with a muted, ringing tone that echoes through the lobby. The sound of heels walking across the marble floor follows directly after. 

  
"Lux Atkins? We're ready for you now," a man in white says, voice low as he moves to stand in front of Lux.    
  
Lux smiles at the man warmly. "Alright." She begins to follow the man towards the lift, but she pauses before walking into the glass cube. "Bye, Mister Harry! I'll see you later." She waves giddily before stepping into the lift with the Superior. 

  
Harry glances down at his scribe, pursing his lips together as he minimizes the window. He hates this part. The getting to know a child before letting them go, unknowingly, to have their lives changed. It makes his heart feel like it's hurtling down the side of a building, forever approaching a tumultuous fall that leaves him gasping for air; consumed with a certain brand of pain that is forever etched into his memory. The sliding doors open and another child walks in. A smile plays beautiful games on their thin lips with a raw type of innocence that can only be stolen through a nerve-ending manipulating surgery that forever changes them. He wishes that he could help them in some way, or at least prepare them, but he can't. This is just the way that the world works, and he should accept that. 

In the span of an hour, Lux comes thundering out of the lift, and the pale yellow lights that illuminate the room reflect off of the bracelet that is freshly embedded into her skin. She detaches from the Superior to stand in front of his desk with a smile so bright and radiant that it could be compared to sunshine. Her eyes glowing with vibrant excitement. 

  
She looks at Harry and smiles. "Hello, Mister Harry, I -" she begins but is cut off by the sound of her own broken wheezing. She raises her hand up to her throat, eyes wild with confusion and her new bracelet bleeding out a large  **_‘00’_ ** .    
  
_ Please don't waste your words on me _ , Harry wants to say, but it's too late. He wants to rip the bracelet off the girl, even though it's now attached to her body. (He learned during his first few days here that while everyone is under anesthesia, doctor's break and reconstruct the bones in order to make room for the bracelet to be a permanent fixture of everyone's bodies.) He watches as Lux’s blue eyes swim with unshed tears, and he wishes that he could explain how her whole life is going to be rewritten now. That all of the words she had been taught and tested over will now be something that she constantly frets over.    
  
Instead, he stays behind his desk as she is led out of the building. Her cries follow her as she is led out. Harry really hates his job, he doesn't know why he was given it. He's not fit for it.    
  
Sometimes, he thinks he is facing punishment for what Gemma did. That he was given a job  equivalent to the Grim Reaper of voices - sending children off to have their vocal chords receive a maximum limit and hearing their last free words - all because Gemma decided that she didn't want to live a life with only four words per day. He wonders if The Movement thought that maybe she wasn't punished severely enough, and that this awful occupation was given to him as an afterthought.    
  
_ The Movement is a cruel thing, Haz _ . Gemma had told him this several times during the late nights when she would whisper tales of people being free and happy. He just has trouble reminding himself to not believe her.

His scribe brightens with a small reminder that's marked in red calling for his attention. He expands the box until the scribe shows a hologram of blue words reminding him that he needs to go for his allotted lunch break. Harry slides out of his seat, grabbing his satchel and hooking it over his shoulder before putting a sign, that signifies that he's on break, over his desk. The lift is filled with blinding fluorescent lighting and the starch scent of cleaning products. He leans back against the cool glass, closing his eyes absently until the lift lets out a small ding, and the doors slide open. The hallways are filled with natural lights pouring from the plethora of glass windows that are nestled between the pristine white walls. His scuffed shoes make subtle squeaking noises with every small step that he takes. 

He settles into one of the open seats in the breakroom, pressing his palm against the scanner so that his meal will materialize in front of him. The room is silent, the only sounds that is formed between the handful of people that are having their lunch is the sound of forks sliding across the plates. Harry grabs his scribe and hooks it up to the hologram projection chat line, along with all of the others who have theirs online, too. He hardly ever contributes to the small talk that a few of the others make on the projected feed, but he also doesn't want to be rude and act like he doesn't want to communicate with everyone else, either. He fills his fork with the rice that his meal plan has given him, and stares at the current thread of messages that are on now. 

There is always this one rebel at Harry’s lunch that is practically asking for his tongue to be cut off.    
  
Every single day, this one balding man would take to his own scribe to complain about everything in his life. He goes on tangents about how he is unhappy with his job, his mate, and his life. He openly bashes The Movement and all of the foundations that it stands for and criticizes Superiors for how they don't have to wear a bracelet. He's  _ angry  _ and isn't afraid enough to hide what upsets him. Nobody ever joins in on the scribe conversation when he begins to talk like this, because they're too scared of being seen as a rebel, too. He is a ticking grenade, a red flag, a bad seed. He symbolizes everything that threatens the long-lasting peace, and  should be punished. 

  
Harry glares at the man, feeling the over-encompassing, untamed animal of anger crawl up his veins as he stares at the balding man. He continues to rant about The Movement and their leaders. How does this man get away with talking about the safe world they were so graciously given without even so much as one reprimand while Gemma was taken away just for trying to squeeze more words out of her given amount? How is it fair that people like this man, people who look at what they have been given and balk at it, can still stand here with a perfect job and a nice mate, while teenage girls are taken away from their home for doing something so trivial? 

He finishes off his food and grabs his stylus writing the two words, “ _ You’re disgusting,”  _ before standing and leaving the break room. He feels like the hologrammed words should be branded on his back, standing as a reminder to all of the Unconformists that go unpunished that they are truly vile and poisonous to society. 

  
He takes the lift back to the first floor, closing his eyes and counting to twenty as the machine crawls down over forty floors worth of offices. The caged animal that's roaring in his chest has subsided to small growls, and a few heart shuttering staccatos by the time that he's reached his level. He moves his hair away from his cheek with the palm of his hand, forcing his mouth to take the shape of something that's reminiscent of a smile, but he stops short when he looks at his desk. 

It's very rare for someone new to join the endless line of workers at Movement Headquarters. Harry has been the newest member until today, and he'd been working at The Movement Operational Facility for over two years now. There’s a man behind the desk, with dark hair that's falling lazily over his eyes and the same tan skin that his Superior has. Harry stands in front of him, clearing his throat so that the man looks up at him. He smiles in greeting, and the man returns it before looking back down at his old scribe. Harry moves behind the desk, taking off his satchel and searching over his scribe for some sort of notice from corporate about this new person. 

  
He finds the notice hidden under layers of invoices from other people in the building, and scans over it to see that his new coworker is titled as  _ Malik, Zayn  _ and identifies as a male. He runs his tongue over his lips nervously, turning toward Zayn, while wiping his sweaty palms against his trousers.He has an older scribe, that Harry hasn't seen since he was in primary school, and he uses it to project a greeting back to Harry. He nods and scoots closer to Zayn showing him on his own scribe which applications to use in order to alert the ones upstairs about which child had entered into the Facility. Zayn takes all of the new information in stride, and then they’re sitting quietly beside each other, staring at the glass doors and waiting for the next child to enter. 

  
" _ What's/your/name/again? _ " Zayn whispers lowly in a rapid voice a few minutes later. 

  
Harry drops his stylus from where he was drafting a status report in fright, looking down at Zayn's bracelet. He feels his mouth go dry as he sees the stark  **_‘04’_ ** that still projected on Zayn’s wrist. He tapped his foot against the marble floor in a rapid beat, mind racing with questions. 

_ 'How did you do that? _ ' He writes down on his scribe and slides it over to Zayn.    
  
" _ Don't/write/on/that, _ " Zayn murmurs quietly, reaching over and clearing Harry's scribe screen, rolling his eyes. 

  
Harry sets down his stylus again, turning in his chair to stare at Zayn, assessing him. Zayn doesn’t seem scared or hesitant, no trace of panic in his dark eyes. Instead he appears confident, radiating this aura that he is secure with everything he does. Harry continues to watch him, long enough that Zayn raises a single eyebrow towards him. It's Zayn that breaks the stare first, turning to face forward as a small, self-assured smirk takes its place on his thin lips. Harry swallows over the rapidly-forming knot in his throat, turning on his scribe again, while trying to not feel petrified by the fact that Zayn reminds him of Gemma.    
  
_ ‘You're going to be in trouble _ ,’ Harry writes, hands trembling as he puts the scribe in front of Zayn. 

Zayn turns towards him once more, close enough to where his breath hits Harry’s cheeks. His eyes are a deep brown framed with long lashes. They flickers over Harry's face before he finally curls his lips into a smile, " _ You/won't/tell _ ." he says, voice dropping quietly until it's just a mere whisper. 

  
_ He's right _ , Harry thought, moving farther away from Zayn and his knowing eyes,  _ I won't _ .    
  
;; 

Harry walks into his flat in a hurry, kicking off his shoes and tossing his collapsed hoverboard into his ceramic bowl, arms trembling from the chill that he hasn't quite yet subsided from. He ties his hair back and walks towards his living room, searching for where Dusty has set up camp while he was gone. The telly is on, loud enough to where he can hear it while he walks around the flat, looking in every possible corner. 

"The Movement is expertly crafted," a male voice reverberates throughout the flat. Harry spots a tuft of dark fur going under his bed. "This certain type of political system is the only way to assure zero epidemics and zero wars while ensuring everyone’s happiness. Our founders have spent years using all of the most influential and intellectual research in order to build this way of life..."   
  
Harry lies on his stomach, making a small humming noise to his cat, trying to urge her to come out from under his bed. Dusty meows at him, but doesn’t move. He smiles. 

  
"Imagine living in a world like that, one filled with pandemonium, strife, and complete and utter chaos." Harry reaches forward and grabs the cat, walking back to the living room to sit on the couch. He runs his hand over her long fur calmly, staring at the large screen of the television. The footage is showing film from the Dark Era, with children crying desperately while nuclear bombs explode overhead. "The Movement is like a beckon, a savior, and we are forever indebted to our Superiors. Never forget that.” 

  
Harry keeps his eyes trained on the television screen, even after it’s turned black and the animatronic voice warned that he has fifteen minutes before he is to go to sleep. Everytime he closes his eyes, images from the destruction of the Dark Era invade his mind, and he knows in his heart that he _ is  _ indebted to The Movement. He  _ should _ be completely loyal to every rule that is outlined. He owes The Movement, and he shouldn't forget that. He really shouldn't. There is this mantra that he sometimes has so repeat to himself. It is something that is simple, but still stands in deep contrast from what he would always think when he was younger. He leans his head against the back of his couch, hand incessantly running over Dusty as he forms his lips around the silent words of his mantra: ‘ _ I don’t want to end up like Gemma. _ ’ Until he gives into the gentle ebbs of sleep.    
  


Sometimes Harry dreams about one time when he was nine and still in school.    
  
He had sat in the back, mostly because if he sat there the Instructor wouldn't call him up to the projector, where he would answer questions on his scribe for everyone to watch. He never liked to be the focal point of attention. He used to always look over at the lad that sat behind the desk next to him; he had always been confused as to why the boy always wore a long jumper, even in the blazing summer.    
  
_ 'Maybe that's all his family can afford to have _ ,' his mum would project when he would bring it up during dinner. 

The dream usually consists of the same thing: it was when the air con in the classroom had overheated, and the air in the classroom had been absolutely sweltering. The boy that sat beside him had even rolled up his sweater to the elbows, which was a rare occurrence, seeing as he typically always kept the threadbare sweater to rest around his wrists.  Harry had been slowly looking across the room, staring at random things and letting his mind wander while the instructor was projecting some madness about the Dark Era. Then he caught sight of the boy’s wrist, and he couldn’t force himself to look away. 

  
The boy's number had read  **_‘06’_ ** . Harry had stared at the number, mouth open in shock and mind rapidly sifting through unanswered questions. The boy had caught him staring and instantly shoved his sleeve down, moving the fleece to cover all the way down to his small fingertips.    
  
"Miss," the boy had called, and then everyone jumped. Nobody had talked in class, ever. Even at a young age, everyone, including Harry, was saving their words, for something, even if that one thing that was worth saving words for couldn't quite be pinned down, it was still something, nonetheless. "I have too many words."   
  
Harry had tracked the boy’s movements with his eyes as the boy was led out of the room hastily. The teacher was saying something about taking him to The Movement Operational Facility, (which is the place where Harry works now).

  
When Harry had written down the entire story on his scribe and showed it to Gemma that night, her eyes had widened slowly, like she just had her eyes adjusted by the pills that are given annually to everyone for perfect vision. "They made a mistake," she had said, voice awe-filled, using all of her words. 

  
Harry knows, now, that that was the last time that Gemma had actually followed the law and didn't try to cheat and use more words than her bracelet allowed.

He wakes to the feel of Dusty trying to climb on his chest, so he grabs her and turns off the television before moving to his bed. The moon casts a milky glow in his barren hallways and he can hear his neighbors moving around next door. He lies in his bed with Dusty at his side, closing his eyes and reminding himself that this is what peace feels like.    
  


;;

Harry wakes up at half past nine to the blaring sound of his scribe vying for his attention and Dusty pawing needily at his face. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, voice sleep-addled. He swings his legs over the side of his bed, and grabs Dusty. It is only when he is leaning down to pour food in her pink ceramic bowl that he catches a glimpse of his wrist to see the  **_‘03’_ ** .  _ Stupid.  _ He puts down the grey cat and presses his hands against his eyes. The sun is filtering elegantly through his lone window, and Dusty is mewling by his feet. It takes him a few moments to look at his wall, where the time and temperature is projected, to realize why his scribe allowed him to sleep in. It is the twenty-third of April. He exhales, falling down onto his couch, and letting exhaustion consume his body like the waves of an ocean. 

The twenty-third of the fourth month is when Harry's whole sector has to stay in their homes. Nobody goes to work. Nobody visits their family. Nobody does  _ anything, _ but eat their assigned meals and wait. It is like a holiday, in essence, because everyone does not work, but it is also starkly different than a lighthearted vacation. The twenty-third is the day that Superiors come and inject a sort of technology into their brains, allowing The Movement to monitor their every thought. 

  
He forces himself to get on his feet and prop his front door open, bidding in stale tufts of air from the hallway that provide an unwelcomed warmth into his flat. Dusty mewls at his feet, weaving her body around his ankles. He leans down, picking her up. He then puts the cat in his lap, and strokes between her ears. It is more of a calming method for himself rather than for the cat.    
  
He is nervous for no reason, truthfully. It is just scary that there will be people listening to his thoughts for the next few weeks. It makes him feel strangely connected to the mummified people from a lost country that Gemma told him about when he was ten. She said that they would have their brains taken out through hooks in their noses, and then doctors would analyze them for no true reason at all. It is  _ this.  _ These thoughts that present themselves spontaneously in his mind. They can be used as evidence against Harry to show that he knows more than he should about the Dark Ages than The Movement wants him to.  _ These  _ are the thoughts that can make Harry seem like he's an Unconformist.    
  
But he is  _ not _ . He likes The Movement and how they provide a stable government. He  _ likes _ that he doesn't have to worry about the war, famine, and crime that The Movement claimed was a constant burden for the ones that lived prior. He just hopes that his thoughts will project that. He hopes that it is evident that he is content with how things are.    
  


He turns his attention to the telly. There is a documentary running about a factory that desalinates the ocean, and how that leads to a surplus of freshwater that can be used for energy. He is pretty sure he went to lessons with a girl that was picked to work there. Leaning back against his couch, he watches the film intently until he hears footsteps nearing his door. 

There is a sharp knock on his door. It is a formality, Harry knows, because a woman dressed in crisp white strides into his flat without him welcoming her in. Superiors have clearance to go anywhere they want at any time. The woman has a small nose and auburn hair pinned at the nape of her neck, grouped with a petite stature; she can't be over twenty-five years old. She must have just finished her training to be a Superior.    
  
"Hello," the woman greets with a brief smile, holding out her hand. Harry stands up and shakes it firmly. "I am Lara, and I'll be administering your injection today."   
  
Harry nods.    
  
"As per tradition, I have to read this creed as to why you are being given this injection," the Superior -  _ Lara _ \- takes a scribe out from her side satchel. "You may sit."   
  
Harry sits, and Dusty jumps up onto his lap. He runs his hand over her soft fur without breaking eye contact with the Superior. He sits up a bit straighter, and stretches a pleasant smile over his lips.    
  
"The Movement has become to be known as humanity's knight in shining armor," Lara begins in a practiced voice, "The Movement has researched and experimented the best way to build a functioning society with complete peace and prosperity. As is well known, The Movement knows what is best and will continue to provide everyone with the criteria for being the 'best'. Unfortunately, there are greedy people who believe that the best can get even better. They go by the name of Unconformists. To avoid having an abundance of said Unconformists, we have condensed the common people to only be allowed four words per day, as to avoid chaos. But, as an ancient saying tells, actions speak louder than words," Lara fiddles with her scribe before continuing,  "and actions seed from thoughts. Since the thoughts of people cannot be let out in four words, we cannot know who would perform the actions that could potentially ruin the world The Movement has provided. Therefore, a genius man, under the alias Gray Troy, developed a way for us to find the people who are showing the qualities of Unconformist thoughts. In approximately two and a half minutes, I will administer an injection that has a microchip embedded in it. This microchip will record your thoughts for an entire day. You will not know which day your thoughts are being monitored, but the microchip does diminish from your system in two weeks time."   
  
Harry nods. Lara smiles wanly before grabbing the small silver box she laid on Harry's coffee table, undoing the latch. She flips open the lid, and Harry eyes the massive needle sitting in the blue velvet interior distastefully. She picks up the needle, wipes it with a cloth from her breast pocket.    
  
"Oh, and Mr. Styles," Lara says as she snaps latex gloves over her hands, "I would be careful with what you think."   
  
Harry feels his body convulse with a tidal wave of fear that rolls up from his toes and into his spine. Haywire thoughts in his mind wonder if he has already done something wrong.    
  
Lara wipes at a spot on his forehead before bringing the needle up to his temple. "Breathe in," Lara instructs. Harry inhales. "Breathe out." He exhales, and the needle pierces his skin.    
  
It is highly unlikely, but Harry swears he can feel the microchip moving as it rides through his bloodstream and enters his nervous system. He knows he really cannot. The microchip is so small, and Harry is not in tune with his body enough to be able to feel the thrum of his cells moving beneath his skin. It is figurative, but Harry can almost  _ feel _ a pair of hands sifting through his brain, trying to find something that makes him unlike the others. Lara presses a small plaster to his temple before taking a step back.    
  
"Be sure to make sure you don't show any symptoms of side effects from this injection, the list of side effects can be found on your scribe," Lara puts her own scribe back into her satchel and picks up the sleek, silver box. "And, as always, do remember that The Movement respects your cooperation."   
  
Lara leaves, and Harry lets out a breath he did not know he has been holding.   
  
;;   
  
Harry does not know how Zayn Malik still has his tongue.    
  
As soon as he sits down behind their large white desk, Zayn plops down beside him and heaves his feet (clad in some kind of clunky shoes that Harry has never seen before), pulling on one of Harry's curls.    
  
" _ How/was/your/injection? _ " Zayn says all in one exhale.    
  
Harry sneaks a glance at Zayn's wrist. It still glares out an  **_‘04’_ ** . Harry tries not to think about him cheating, because, for some stupid reason, he does not want to get Zayn in trouble. Even if what he does is not fair to everyone else. (He thinks about it a little, hopefully, for Zayn's sake, today is not the day that Harry's mind is being tapped).   
  
Harry does not verbally answer Zayn. He just shrugs neutrally, turning his eyes to the sliding doors where a tiny boy is walking in slowly, his eyes wide and fearful. The boy walks toward Harry and Zayn's desk, and settles on the scribe in front of Harry. He writes in his last name, ( _ Daniels _ ) then patiently sticks out his finger. Harry rifles through his desk drawer before getting out a fingertip scanner. The boy presses his finger onto it silently, and Harry watches as a projection shows the boys face, his full name, and his birthdate. Harry smiles at the boy before writing on his scribe, ' _ You can go sit now _ ' knowing that his words are being projected over his shoulder as he writes them for the boy to see.    
  
The boy chooses to sit on a long white couch that faces away from the large window. Harry feels a pang of sympathy as the boy wrings his hands worriedly. The lobby is quiet for a while. Zayn, for once, is not trying to fill the air with his immoral ways of cheating the system and getting more words than he deserves. The boy just does not seem to want to speak.    
  
_ Or so _ , Harry thought. The boy clears his throat lightly after about fifteen minutes. "So, this is it, right?" he asks timidly, "This is it. I'm going to lose my words, and I can't do anything about it."   
  
The boy looks up and meets Zayn's; then Harry's eyes. He must be a smart kid because he detects the somber looks on their faces instantly. Then his eyebrows furrow with worry.    
  


"I'm going to lose my words, and I'm going to be monitored, and I'll have those... Those things that they put in all of the older people's heads yesterday. The thing will read my mind. So I won't even be able to think, right?" the kid sniffles. "That's not fair! It's not. What have I done to have everything taken away from me? What have you guys done?"   
  
Zayn makes a pained noise, shaking his head quickly. Harry looks down at his scribe and fights the urge to see if the boy has any family members that are flagged as Unconformists. Instead, he does the right thing. The _ safe _ thing.    
  
  


Harry writes on his scribe,  _ 'We've done nothing, but the people before us have. This isn't punishment, it's a precaution. Our words and thoughts being monitored means that we'll be safe from the ones who can cause chaos with their poison. _ ' He watches the boy read it, his tiny, cherubic face staying impassive.    
  
"But the words thing. Can't I save them? What if I don't use my four words one day, will that mean that on my next day, I'll have eight words?"    
  
Zayn clears his throat and shakes his head while pointing at his wrist. "Restarts."    
  
Harry feels smug as Zayn's bracelet ticks down to  **_‘03’_ ** . Even if it was for a good cause.    
  
The boy looks down at the floor and kicks his feet from where they are hovering over the ground. He does not say anything else.  Harry gazes over the young boy’s shoulder at the window for a moment, watching the hustle of people on their hoverboards flying beside the QuikTrains that are bulleting past the nearly-empty sidewalks on monorails. before turning back to his work. He sorts through all of the children that are supposed to come in today and flicks his finger on the scribe to where each child is filed under the name of a different surgeon. He vainly tries not to think, and just act.    
  
That is what he is going to try to do for the next two weeks, while his mind has the chance of being tapped.    
  
When a Superior comes in five minutes later, calling out, "Peter Daniels," in a dialect-free voice while waving a bracelet-less hand for him to stand up, the boy panics.    
  
"No, no, no!" the boy cries. "I'm not going. I don't want this, this isn't fair!"   
  
The Superior cuts a glance at Harry and Zayn, and they both immediately stand up and press their hands against the boy’s flailing arms.    
  
"Why'd you give me my words just to take them?" He says with tears rolling down his cheeks, his face flushing. "Why do you not trust me? Why are you treating me like an animal?" the boy kicks a leg out at the Superior, violently. "What makes you so amazing that you get words while everyone else doesn't? Nothing is right about this! I'm not an animal."   
  
The Superior reaches into her satchel, and Harry knows that she is going to get a neutralizing injector that will paralyze the boy. He cannot let that happen. He cannot watch the boy go unwillingly limp in his arms, even if he's being violent. It is not fair, he is just a kid.    
  
"Stay still," Harry says in a loud voice, he doesn't yell, just says it. His voice drops to a strange decibel that he has never heard from himself before, "It's okay."    
  
The air turns to static for a moment, and then the boy stills, along Zayn and the Superior. None of them move until Harry tries to say “ _ It's okay, _ ” again, but the only thing that comes out is a sharp wheeze. It is only then that the Superior and Zayn continue moving towards the elevator.    
  
Harry does not get it, but as soon as Zayn and Harry set Peter gently on the elevator floor, the Superior sticks the neutralizing injector into the boy's neck anyways. He feels appalled and confused, but he immediately wipes that thought away. He cannot risk thinking the wrong thing. That woman probably knows what she is doing. Maybe it is protocol to inject someone if they make a public disturbance like that. Harry doesn't know. There is a reason for everything; there has to be.    
  
The elevator closes as soon as the boy falls to the ground, and Harry and Zayn settle behind their desk once more. Harry immediately leans his head against the palms of his hands and makes a noise in the back of his throat that is supposed to be a silent groan, but sounds more like a disposal system as it sends waste down to compost.    
  
" _ Sad/innit? _ " Zayn breathes. Harry nods against his hands.    
  
" _ Kid/had/a/point _ ," He can hear Zayn as he puts his feet on the desk again. Harry does not say or do anything to contribute to Zayn’s monologue, although he desperately wants to warn Zayn that thoughts like the ones he is having can get his tongue cut off. " _ You/used/all/of/your/words _ ," he adds.    
  
Harry wants to  _ scream _ at the unfairness of it all. Zayn should not be allowed to get ten cheated words, while having three legitimate words leftover. Harry has zero left. All because he wanted to help a child.    
  
" _ Don't/you/have/a/mate/you'd/want/to/talk/to _ ?" Zayn asks.    
  


Harry lets his curiosity win over him. He lifts away from his hands, and looks at Zayn's wrist. It still reads  **_‘03’_ ** . He figures the counter only takes words for each intake of breath between words, that is the only way it would make sense. Harry remembers that Zayn asked a question, then shakes his head no.    
  
Whenever everyone was assigned a mate via an invoice on their scribes (It is just a projection that shows a picture of someone's mate, their information, and when the mated pair are to meet.) over the last few years, Harry just thought that maybe his mate was younger than him, seeing as he never got an invoice saying that The Movement has found his soulmate. It was not until he turned eighteen (Most people are expected to get their invoices and, by extension, their mate, when they turn fifteen.) that Harry was given a letter from the head of The Movement's Mating Complex saying that Harry was never going to receive a mate, that there just was not anyone that fit his formula, or matched any of the results from the tests that he unknowingly partook in while they tried to find his mate,. For The Movement, it was either perfection, or nothing. Harry is guaranteed to never have perfection, thus, he is never going to have a mate. That is why he was given a cat; to fill the gap that having no mate left.    
  


Zayn hums slowly, nodding, then turns to his own scribe. It is an old thing that is slate grey and does not even have a bloody stylus compartment. Harry does not get why Zayn does not use the scribe he was given for this job, seeing as they are top of the line and almost the same as the models that Superiors use.    
  
But then again, nothing about Zayn makes any sort of sense.    
  
;;   
  
  
Harry stomps his foot down on the faulty power button of his hover board. The board,  _ finally _ , whirrs quietly, gravitating down toward the smooth grey ground. He kneels and punches in the pass code that ensures that no one can steal it, though, the notion is  _ highly _ unlikely, honestly. Who would steal something so valuable? When he turns around, he bumps shoulders with a man sporting a shock of brown hair. The man gently pats Harry's shoulder in a quiet apology before turning to his hover board. Harry shrugs it off easily, and walks towards the entrance of his flat.   
  
As soon as he enters the door, Dusty weaves between his feet immediately, purring happily. Harry leans down and picks her up while humming quietly down at her. She is in a good mood and so is he. It has been two weeks since Injection Day, and Harry can practically  _ feel _ the proverbial hands extracting themselves from his head. It makes him feel like he can breathe easier. He feels as if someone's large arms have been gripping around his neck, making his oxygen intake wither away rapidly. Just when he felt like he was going to float away into an abyss of sheer panic and stress, the arms had loosened their grip and let him breath again.

****  
Harry lazes around with Dusty for the whole evening, watching as the animatronic voice on the telly narrates the chaos from the Devastated Times. He winces at the gory reenacted scenes, and keeps twisting his fingers in the long hair of Dusty's coat soothingly. It is only until he decides to take off his jumper does he see a piece of stock papyrus that has been tucked into his breast pocket neatly. Harry runs his fingers over the paper, relishing the foreign feel of it. He tries to stave off the thoughts that the paper reminds him of Gemma and how she had given him some of the papyrus secretly before she was taken away. He tries to rid himself of thoughts of just Gemma in general because, even after all of these years, everything has some sort of correlation with Gemma to him, and it still hurts. She was a massive part of his life, and he misses her, even if she did try to project illegal habits on Harry and gave him paper that he could have been sent to jail for.  
  
But his thoughts do not stay on Gemma for too long because there is a brief, cryptic message scrawled on the papyrus:  
  
 _We're watching; we always are._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So this update is later than planned but I hope to have the next chapter up by next weekend! Meanwhile, come talk to me on my [tumblr](http://the-rose-has-been.tumblr.com) !


	3. Chapter 3

When Harry gets to work, his usual seat is already taken.

There's a man with brown hair and sharp, blue eyes, dressed in the crisp white kit that can only mean Superior, leaning back on Harry's chair with his chin tipped towards the ceiling. He's moving his hands as he talks amicably to Zayn, who's surprisingly early (for once) and seems to actually be at complete ease with the Superior.

Harry clears his throat and nods at the Superior and Zayn before punching in the code that makes the divider between the area behind the desk and the lobby slide open. He dumps his battered satchel into his cubby that has  _ 'Styles, Harry E.' _ labelled on it in a pristine font.

When he turns around, the Superior is out of Harry's chair and has his hand stuck out for him to shake. Harry takes it and shakes it firmly, once.

"Hello," The Superior says, with a smile that is bright and wide and different than all of the other Superiors' that Harry has ever met. "I'll get out of your way, then. Have a nice day."

Harry nods mutely, fighting down the urge to just let the Superior have his seat, even if he willingly gave it up. He hovers around his own chair for a bit until Zayn turns around and pats at the leather, signaling for Harry to sit.

Harry powers up his scribe and scrubs beneath his eyes. He could barely get any sleep last night, Dusty was mewling all night because Harry let her sleep too much during the day. There isn't any kids scheduled to come in until hours later, and Harry could probably sneak in a quick nap, but he doesn't want to chance getting caught by a Superior that might come into the building.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see Zayn holding up his old, thick scribe. Harry nods in recognition, and Zayn slides the scribe over to Harry.

Harry rubs his eyes again before he starts reading; 'Be careful with what you think today.' Harry reads it again before trying to swallow down the uneasy feeling that rises up his throat. He slides the scribe back to Zayn and nods his head minutely.

Zayn knows nothing, really. Zayn's probably just trying to scare Harry, make him think that he's still being watched. And it doesn't matter if Harry is being monitored, because Harry has absolutely nothing to hide. But the injection only stays in everyone's system for two weeks, so how could anyone even know what Harry's thinking, now that the two weeks are over.

Zayn is abnormally quiet for the rest of the day. He doesn't try and cheat the system to get more words, and Harry tries to not think too deeply about why Zayn's having a sudden change of heart. Maybe Zayn realized how unfair he was being to others by getting more words than he deserves, while everyone else follows the rules.

Harry isn't complaining.

//

The man with the brown hair and the blue eyes keeps coming around to the lobby. He doesn't really talk to Harry, just sometimes spares him a greeting or a nod in recognition

The man is kind of really intriguing, he's unlike any Superior Harry's ever been around before, and it's kind of addicting. His smile is so radiant and he doesn't act depreciative to anybody. Harry likes him.

But, today, the Superior seems a little off. He's scrolling over his own scribe mechanically, sparing a few quick glances towards Harry and Zayn's way. After five minutes of the cold silence that always seems to envelop the lobby when a young child isn't there to fill the air, the Superior looks up and smiles apologetically at Zayn.

"Mr. Malik," the Superior says. "I need you to come with me."

Harry turns to look at Zayn, feeling a foreign sense of dread and worry. Zayn hasn't done anything wrong for days, why would they just want Zayn now? Zayn wipes his hands across his thighs quickly before standing up and moving to pass through the divider, but the Superior holds up a hand to stop him.

"Bring your scribe," the Superior tells him.

Zayn nods and grabs the shiny, new issue scribe that The Movement provided them with.

The Superior clears his throat and brushes his brown hair out of his face. "Your actual scribe, Mr. Malik. Hurry, please."

Zayn's face becomes stricken, but he quickly contorts it back to a look of passivity. He probably appears to be more composed than Harry does right now.

Zayn opens up the small desk drawer and pulls out his clunky scribe. He nods at the Superior before saying, "I'm ready."

Harry looks over at Zayn's word counter out of curiosity, it reads _ 02. _ Zayn glances back at Harry and offers up a wane smile before he follows the Superior to the elevator. They both step in, Zayn with a sigh and the Superior with a stoic expression.

It feels strange to be behind the massive white and steel desk on his own, now that Zayn's been by his side for the past few months. Zayn had this way of taking up the space behind the desk with his energy and his fearlessness, and Harry would be a liar if he claimed that he won't miss Zayn.

Harry's scribe buzzes with an alert that it's time for his lunch. He shuts down the desk and heads to the elevator for the one's who aren't Superiors. The elevator jerks and groans as it takes Harry down to the basement, but he’s familiar enough with it by now that he probably wouldn't be able to keep his footing if the elevator was ever fixed to run more smoothly.

Harry starts making his own lunch and nodding at his colleagues that file into break room and set about making their lunches beside him.

Whenever he turns around to sit down and eat, he sees the rebellious balding man already sitting there, chewing on an apple with a sullen look on his face. Harry sits across from him and offers a smile at the man. The man doesn't smile back.

It's then that Harry notices that there's a white square - a silencer - stuck to the side of the man's neck. It's eerily familiar to what they put on Gemma when they took her away.

Half of Harry wants to be smug about it, because the man deserves to be silenced, because he was openly rebellious and he complained too much about the luxurious life that he was given. This man got away with being an Unconformist way longer than Gemma did, and maybe that makes Harry feel a little (a lot) spiteful. But the other half of Harry felt so sad. Because he know that the man has a mate, that man more than likely has a family, with young, impressionable children. He can't imagine what it'd be like to go home to his family and not be able to say anything at all, to not be able to tell his children that he loved them. Harry doesn't want to think about the high possibility that the man might not go home to his family at all.

Harry guesses that all of these people being pulled away by the Superiors must be because of the mind-tap's results.

Harry tore his eyes away from the man's silencer and his sad, grey eyes and promptly shoved a spoonful of food into his mouth.

Nobody bothers to strike up a conversation on the scribe-chat room. Harry figures that everyone's making a gesture, showing anyone that might happen to review the chat that no one is affiliated with the Unconformist. Or maybe nobody has any idea what to say. Harry's a nice mixture of both the former and the latter, so he doesn't even bother with booting his scribe up.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of loneliness, kids losing their words, and at least five more people walking through the lobby with silencers on their neck.

He doesn't see Zayn again, that day. But after his fifteen minute break, Zayn's satchel is gone from his cubby.

//

Thursdays are his favorite days of the week. Because that's his allotted family day. Harry turns off his hover board and sits it on the smooth ground.

Every time he looks up at his mum's house, he's hit with a pang of nostalgia. There's a thousand memories woven into the small building. It's one of the few living areas in the city that is an actual home that stands all alone and not nestled into the middle of a complex or suburb. It's only a narrow, two story house with white washed exterior, with colorful hybrid flowers pouring out of the window panes of each window. Harry scraps his boots against the mat in front of the door before stripping them off his feet and ringing the doorbell, with his scuffed boots hanging loosely in his free hand.

His mum answers the door with a blinding smile and a warm embrace. "Hey, love." she whispers into his hair.

Harry glances down at her wrist and reads her number:  _ 02 _ .

"Hi," he whispers into her shoulder. It's the first word he's used all day.

They untangle from their embrace, and head past the threshold. Harry scrapes his eyes across the digital pictures embedded into the wall, there's ones of him and Gemma. It makes Harry feel a little bad for his mum; she's lost everyone, but she's still holding on to what she once had so tightly.

Harry doesn't blame her.

Robin's already setting out plates in the dining room when Harry and his mum enter. Harry notices the two extra places, and figures that his grandparents are going to be attending today, as well.

Robin glances up at Harry and offers a wane smile. Harry struggles to return it.

Harry's mum sets up all of the small, portable scribes to the projection screen on the wall, so that everyone can chat over dinner.

When Harry's grandparents come in, the foods already all set and his mum is shining so brightly with happiness. Harry thinks it's because she likes to see a full table.

Harry's mum clears her throat and smiles before gesturing at the chairs and saying, "Please, sit."

She used her last two words of the day, and that feels so weird to Harry.

When Harry was little, his mum barely talked to him and Gemma. She always tried to limit herself to one word. Harry never knew why until he started staying up later at night, and then he realized that his mum was actually saving her words for something important.

Every night, Harry's mum would use her last three words on Harry's dad. She'd always say, 'I love you.' Harry always wanted a mate like that, someone that was worth saving your words for and always worth telling them that you love them. Each night he could hear his mum tell his dad that she loved him, and Harry would cross his fingers and hope that The Movement would be nice enough to give him a mate that made him feel this unconditional type of love that his parents had.

And then Harry's dad left when he was fifteen. Harry and his mum don't really know what happened to his dad, they just know that one day they came home to a house that was void of all of his father's belongings and a starch, white card nestled on the dining table that said only two words - 'I'm sorry.' After that, Harry saw his mum fall down an endless abyss of complete and utter sadness. She would always use her words on Harry. Every night when she'd send him off to his bedroom, she would kiss him on the crown of his head and whisper "Please, don't leave, too."

A year later, his mum got a letter telling her that she was obliged to attend another Mating Ceremony. She didn't want to, Harry could tell. But she didn't want to rebel against The Movement, either. So she went, and then she met Robin. Robin came home with her, and his face was radiant and so happy while Harry's mum still looked down-trodden. Robin didn't have any kids, never even had a mate until Harry's mum. And he was nice enough. He helped Harry's mum recover, but Harry knows that Robin will never be equivalent to Harry's dad in his mum's eyes. And Harry thinks that that's the way it's supposed to be. His mum never saves her words for Robin, but she's happy now. And that's all Harry could ask for, because his mum deserves the world, really.

He sometimes feels bad for Robin, because nothing in the house has changed since Gemma left, and, as long as Harry's mum has a say, nothing will change. Robin must feel like he's in a stranger's house, and Harry knows that Robin never expected that when he was told he was getting a mate.

But at least Robin has a mate, and Harry's mum at least has someone with her at all times. And that's proof that The Movement does have compassion for things like love.

Harry feels a foot push against his leg, and glances up to his Mum smiling toothily at him. He smiles back, and grabs his stylus.

' _ The food is good, _ ' Harry writes.

He takes pride in the happy flush that his mum gets when she reads the projection.

_ 'Where's my Beautiful Dreamer? _ ' Harry's Grandfather sends out on the scribe.

Harry feels his stomach plummet and his mouth pull down at the corners. Harry's Grandfather is slowly losing his memory, and sometimes he asks that.

_ 'Gemma's preoccupied, at the moment. _ ' Harry's mum sends.

Their Grandfather always called Gemma his Beautiful Dreamer, because he always claimed that Gemma had a perspective of the world that no one else could ever imagine. That she was this daring thing that could always see the meaning behind the most minuscule things, even when she was little. Harry didn't disagree with that notion, at all. Gemma is -was - a beautiful, daring dreamer.

Harry shoves another forkful of roast into his mouth hurriedly. He doesn't want to think about Gemma right now, doesn't want to think about how there's an empty seat to the right of him.

_ 'She has a lovely mind, that girl. So clever. Reminds me of you, Anne. When will she back?' _

Harry's mum purses her lips and stares at her plate, and the usual silence changes frequencies. It goes from the normal, calm kind to a charged and tense one.

_ 'We don't know,' _ Robin writes after a bit.  _ 'We won't know for a while.' _

Harry clenches his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. It's almost like he can feel a phantom of Gemma by his side. Like he can hear her laughing into his ear and squeezing her words together to spin tales for Harry about her day. Like he can hear the thud of Gemma's elbows on the table as she leans over to read a fact that their Grandfather felt the need to share about the Unconformed Times.

But Gemma isn't there, she never will be there, and Harry should've learned how to cope with that a long time ago.

//

Harry isn't sure how he ended up here, he just knows that there are bright blue eyes trained on him and that there's a steel fist of dread coiling in his stomach.

Harry pulls himself away from the Superior's bright smile and stares out at the skyline behind him. There are hoverboards flitting around each other and tall, sleek buildings reaching upwards towards the sun. Harry can't deny that the glass walls of this Superior's' office provide an amazing view that makes Harry feel like he could step out of the window and just walk across the tops of the buildings, completely weightless.

It's hard for Harry to believe that he's been working in this very building for years now and he didn't know the kind of beauty that it provided from above the first floor.

"So, Harry," the Superior begins. "How do you like it around here?"

Harry feels around for his scribe, meaning to write out a polite reply, then remembers that he had left it down at the lobby with all of his other belongings. (The Superior had ushered Harry up here with no warning, and didn't instruct him to bring anything).

"Oh," the Superior lets out an uneasy laugh after a bit of silence. "Right. I forget that normal people prefer not to talk, or don't have any words." the Superior nervously ran a hand through his brown hair. "Shows how sheltered I am, eh?"

The Superior laughs, Harry forces a smile.

"Here," the Superior slides a very thin and sleek scribe across his pristine white desk. "You can use my scribe."

Harry takes  it gratefully before taking the extremely narrow stylus in his hand, writing, " _ I like it very well here. _ "

"Yeah," the Superior nods. "I doubt you'd make a great factory worker. This place is pretty luxurious compared to some of the other occupations available. But that's the greatness of The Movement, right? We choose what best fits you."

Harry nods, even though he doesn't know how anyone can know what's best for him, seeing as he was never tested.

Sometimes Harry feels like he doesn't have a choice about anything. He didn't get to be screened for an occupation, like how everyone else does. He won't ever have a mate, won't ever have anyone to love and be loved by. It's like everything about his life is predetermined, and it kind of sucks. But at least he still has (some of) his words, a cat, and his mum. (And even Robin, even if he is a replacement for his father).

He should be grateful for what he has, he just has trouble remembering that.

The Superior opens his mouth to continue, but he's cut off by the slow hum of an alarm. The Superior smiles apologetically at Harry before sifting through a drawer. He pulls out a small, silver case and opens it. The Superior quickly wipes at a spot on the inside of his wrist before quickly sticking a needle into a vein. He pulls out the needle and tosses it into a small yellow bin with the letters 'CDC' on it. The Superior closes the case shut and shoves it back into the drawer.

"Sorry for that," The Superior shrugs, casually. "I'm in remission for cancer. Just a few more injections, and then my cells should be fully replenished with little to no more chances of a mutation again."

Harry nods, slowly. He didn't know that cancer was an actual thing. Gemma told him that it mostly went away after a cure was found when The Movement first started to begin, but some people still got it, and now it was easily treated.

" _ It's fine _ ," Harry writes on the scribe.

"Yeah," The a Superior smiles and drums his fingers against his desk. "So, Harry, do you know why you're here?"

Harry picks up the stylus to begin writing but stops when there's a buzzing at the door of the office.

The Superior opens a drawer in his desk and grabs a remote. The door slides open a couple moments later to show a woman dressed in white.

"Mr. Horan," the woman says pleasantly. "You're needed in the Situation Room, promptly."

The Superior nods at the woman before turning to Harry. "You can leave now, Harry. Natalia will escort you out."

The Superior holds out his hand, and Harry shakes it.

Harry follows the female Superior out of the office but pauses when The Superior - Mr. Horan - calls after him.

"I'll be seeing much more of you, Harry." He says with a smile.

Harry nods mutely and hurries after the other Superior, decidedly not focusing on the feeling of anxiety and fear pricking up his spine from the brunet Superior's words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave comments and be ready because I'm adding the rest of the fic tonight. x hmu on [tumblr](http://voguelourry.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

The world is a hue of blues and whites and perfect greens. Everything moves slowly, like everything's on bated breath. Gemma used to love days like this. ' _ Something big is coming, _ ' she'd always breathe to him while hover boarding down the sidewalks. He never knew what she meant by that, but he knows the word that she wanted to give this feeling. Anticipation.

There are birds flying around, cooing to one another excitably. Grey clouds are rolling in from over the horizon. Rain, Harry frowns. He parks his hover board and waits under an awning, he'll have to ride public transport home, he should've thought to bring his waterproof cover for his board.

He settles onto the pristine, white bench. Watching as people flit about on their boards, some wave to one another, most don't.

A slight body plops down beside him. " _ I've been looking everywhere for you. _ " the projection of a scribe presses in front of his face.

Harry startles and looks at the person with a scribe and then smiles. It's Zayn. With his stupid leather jacket and his stupid troublesome smirk.

Harry smiles. "Where've you been?"

Zayn shrugs, pulls down the collar of his jacket to show a white silencer embedded into his skin. Harry's eyes widen, and Zayn just shrugs.

"Shit," Harry uses his last word of the day.

Zayn shrugs, writes out "Don't worry," on his scribe.

They sit in silence after that. Harry's mind racing. If they released Zayn after silencing him, he thinks, then there's a possibility that they released Gemma too. She could still be out there. There could still be hope. And to Harry, that's something worth holding onto.

//

Harry really wants to scratch at his temple, but he can't because there's a tight piece of some sort of steel seated on the crown of his head.

"This will release all of your thoughts to where we can hear them, okay?" His Superior says, tapping her long fingernail on the steel. "When we turn it on, just read from the script, and if the person answers it wrong, just press down on the dial. Be sure to read aloud in your mind how much voltage the shock has before you press it."

Harry nods.

"The shock hurts, but it's not dangerous. Don't worry about the person on the other side of the glass. We're trying to help them, save them from the Unconformist thoughts that have been seated into their feeble minds. You're helping The Movement, Harry. Remember that."

Right, Harry can do this. He can. The shock is not dangerous. The shock will just hurt a little, it won't be that bad. He's doing this for The Movement. And that's reason enough to do this, and do it right.

Harry reaches up to the band around his forehead and presses his fingertip to the sensor above his ear, shivering when the band vibrates to life.

" _ Okay, _ " Harry says without opening his mouth. It feels really... weird. He knows that this is kind of the same thing as when they're injected with the mind readers for two weeks, but hearing everything he thinks being let out into the air without his permission just feels foreign.

Harry is steered to a large white chair that's settled in front of an even larger white machine with several dials, labels over each. The first one reads 'Slight shock', and it keeps building until it reads ' **Warning: Dangerous shock** ', and then the last two dials are labelled with an ominous ' **DOOM** '.

Beyond the machine is a window into another room, where there's a slight man sitting in the corner, curled in on himself. Harry watches as the man's eyes snap towards the door, and then there's a Superior walking towards him, holding white bracelets and a band that looks much like the one around Harry's head, except for the fact that the one the man is given is the startling colour of blood red.

Harry continues watching as the man struggles in the Superior's grasp, but is interrupted when there's a loud beep sounding through the room, and then the window turns into a mirror-like glass. And Harry's staring into his own bloodshot eyes.

"Is that really me?" Harry thinks aloud. He hasn't seen his own reflection for seven years, ever since The Movement banned mirrors, saying that the existence of them caused vanity, and vanity leads to bad actions.

Harry reaches out to touch the glass; his cheeks have gotten hollow, since he's last seen himself. They're no longer full and rosy like how they used to be, cherubic, Gemma would call him. He doesn't look that way anymore. He feels a pang of loss of his old self, and his spine is twisting at the sight of this stranger in front of him. He's glad he doesn't have to see his reflection anymore, glad he didn't have to watch himself change into someone who looked hardened by life.

"Mr. Styles," his Superior says. "You may begin. Remember, you can leave this experiment at any time."

Harry nods and looks down at the scribe that's so thin and mainly constructed of glass.

" _ Question One, _ " Harry thinks. " _ In what year was The Movement created? _ "

" _ 2079 _ ," a tinny voice fires back quickly.

Harry smiles, " _ Correct _ ." Maybe he won't have to shock anybody, after all.

" _ Question Two, who was the person who first proposed the idea of limiting words? _ "

" _ Don... Don Smith? _ "

Harry's heart plummets. " _ Wrong. I will be administering a fifteen volt shock. _ "

His finger hovers over the dial, he doesn't think he can do this. The Superior at the desk in the corner of the room clears his throat and nods at Harry.

He flicks the dial downwards, and the sound of a gasp comes through the glass.

" _ Are you alright? _ " he asks the person.

" _ Yeah, peachy. Just, go on. _ "

" _ Question Three: The Movement adopted their theory of a perfectly functioning society with zero crime and famine based off the hypothetical island with similar ideals created by Thomas Moore was called what? _ "

" _ Utopia. _ "

" _ Correct, _ " he pushes his hand through his hair. " _ Question Four: How many words was originally given to society daily at the beginning of The Movement. _ "

" _ One thousand. _ "

" _ Correct. Question Five: What was the word capacity for society ten years after that requirement? _ "

" _ Nine.. Hundred? _ "

Harry purses his lips, " _ Incorrect. I will now be administering thirty volts. _ " He presses the dial.

A silent groan of pain resounds.

" _ Continue? _ " he asks the man on the other side of the glass.

" _ Please. _ "

" _ Question Six: What is the foundation that The Movement was based on, and still is? _ "

The man chuckles, " _ Lies and greed. _ "

The Superior chuckles too, eyes darkening. "Well, shock him." He spits at Harry.

Harry nods, " _ Sorry, but you're incorrect. Forty-five volts. _ "

The man on the other side of the glass laughs after the shocks over, " _ 'Sorry', he says. You lot quite sure that you picked a suitable person to torture me? _ "

"Proceed with the test, Mr. Styles."

" _ Question Seven: What is the precise number of Superiors in our region at this moment? _ "

" _ This thing is fucking rigged! Even you wouldn't know that answer, mate." the man yells. "Nobody that isn't a Superior would know. They never tell us the truth. They want us to underestimate them. But they're everywhere, and they're watching. Waiting for you to slip up. But you don't know that, right? Because you live in a perfect Utopian bubble. You and me, kid. We're in the same boat. Stupid and beneath them. Just fucking pawns, mate. That's all we are. _ "

"Up it by a hundred volts," the Superior says.

" _ What? _ " Harry asks quickly. " _ No, no I can't. They said to go up by fifteen at a time. _ "

"The Movement requires for you to obey me. Administer the shock, and up it by one hundred volts. Now, please, Mr. Styles."

Harry sighs, he has to do it. The Movement requires him to do it. He shouldn't even feel pity for the man on the other side of the glass. The man is an Unconformist. He threatens the perfect world that they're living in. He needs to be conditioned, to remember how great The Movement is.

Harry's finger slides to the correct dial. " _ You are incorrect, Sir. I will now be administering 145 volts. _ "

The sound of pain from the glass is heart shattering. Harry wants to stop the whole thing, to make sure that the man is okay. No one deserves to endure pain that makes them sound like that. A niggling, horrible thought wonders if Gemma had to suffer through this same thing as well. He hopes not.

" _ Fuck you, _ " the man snaps. " _ Fuck you that hurts. I want out. Someone get me out of here _ ."

" _ He wants out, he's in pain. Get him out _ ," Harry tells his own Superior.

They said that he could quit at any time he wants to, and he wants to quit now.

"It is imperative that you continue the experiment," the Superior at the desk says.

" _ They said I could quit. He's hurt, I can't go on. _ "

"It's too late to turn back now. Continue, please, Mr. Styles."

It's too late. Harry turns and looks into the glass that shows his reflection. At his hollow, green eyes, his furrowed brows.

" _ I'm a monster, _ " his thought projects to everyone.

He feels something brush up and down his spine, and his fingers flex and fiddle with his jeans. It's like he can feel the man on the other side of the glass's eyes searing into his own. " _ Me too," _ the man says. " _ Let's just. Get this over with, yeah? _ "

//

Thirty-five questions later and they're at the dial marked ' **Warning: Dangerous Shock** .' The man on the other side of the glass is heaving. Sometimes he sniffles, like he's crying from the pain. And Harry hates himself.

" _ Question Forty-Three: What is the basis for deciding who should be mated with whom? _ "

" _ Someone that you'll like well enough, but you'll never love. No one that you'll fight for, that you'll die for, that you'll cry for. _ " The man withholds a whimper. " _ Because passion for something is just as equal to rebellion in The Movement's eyes." _

Harry clears his throat, he doesn't even have to read the given answer to know that the man is incorrect. Because his mum loved his dad with everything she had.

" _ Incorrect," _ Harry breathes. " _ I will now be administering 430 volts _ ."

The man lets out a blood-curdling screech, panting loudly and making labored sounds of pain.

" _ Please, Mr. Styles. Please, let me out. I can't, it hurts. It hurts everywhere. There's a pain in my chest. I'm having trouble breathing. _ " The man sucks in a deep breath. " _ Please _ ."

He looks over at the Superior. "You're nearly finished. The Movement would be elated if you could finish the experiment. Don't worry about the man, he's worthless."

" _ I have to finish, _ " he whispers to the man. There's no answer.

He asks another question, feeling numb. The man gets it wrong, Harry shocks him. The man cries. He begs for mercy. Harry begs for mercy, too. But the Superior's there, egging him on.

He continues.

" _ Question Forty-Five: What is the sole reason for the disagreements between The Movement and Unconformists? _ "

Harry gasps when the mirror turns back to its original state of being a glass window. He is face to face with the man. He is hit with the unforgiving hand of guilt. The man's eyes are bloodshot, his hair is rumpled, his smile manic.

The man leans even closer, he mouths along to the thoughts that are announced: " _ Because everybody's wants to rule the world _ ."

Harry looks down at the correct answer - Because The Unconformists are too greedy to be able to accept the kind gifts that they've been given - and his lips pull down into a frown, tears brimming at his eyes.

He puts his hand onto the last dial, the one with the ominous ‘ **DOOM.** ’

" _ Four Hundred and Fifty volts _ ," he says dutifully. He looks into the man's eyes, tears blurring his vision to where the man is just hues of blue and brown and red. "I am so sorry." he whispers aloud.

He flicks the dial down. There is nothing worse than seeing the man - who could very well just be a boy, he's so slight - flail. Grabbing his headband and letting out a scream both in his thoughts and from his mouth. Tears stream down his cheek, and his whole entire body spasms with the shock. Harry stands quickly, watching helplessly when the man collapses on the floor, curling in on himself, rocking aimlessly, hands scrabbling to try and take the bracelets off. And the awful part is that Harry did that. He put that pain on that man. He made that man cry, scream, and beg for mercy.

Tears of guilt, of shame, of helplessness stream down Harry's face.

He's a monster, he's worse than all of the Unconformists put together.

" _ It's all my fault. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. _ "

The man's body keeps shaking, his chest is heaving up and down, his honey brown hair is matted to his forehead from sweat, and Harry can't see his eyes anymore.

A Superior rushes into the other room and takes off the bracelets and red headband.

"Someone get Mr. Tomlinson medical assistance," she instructs, staring through the glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are always appreciated! hmu on [tumblr](http://voguelourry.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

A person plops down onto the chair beside him, his first thought is Zayn. But he knows it's not right. Zayn hasn't came back around ever since the day that Mr. Horan escorted him out. Nobody has. Harry just hopes that Zayn hasn't received the same treatment at that Unconformist from the 'experiment.' Zayn doesn't deserve that, all he wanted was a few more words, he shouldn't have to deal with pain because of it.

"How'd it go?" Mr. Horan asks, tapping his fingers aimlessly on the desk.

Harry fights the urge to glare at him, to yell and ask  _ 'How in the hell can you be so happy when you know what they're doing to people? What you're doing to people?' _ Luckily he doesn't have the words, or guts, to do so.

"That awful, eh?" Mr. Horan laughs out cheerily. "I couldn't make it past the hundredth volt. Couldn't handle the screams. But hey, it's over now. You never have to do it again."

Harry fakes a small smile, checks the schedule for when the next child is due to come in. Seventeen minutes.

"Listen, it gets better. Soon, you'll be out of this desk and changing lives. You'll make this world even better everyday." Mr. Horan pats him on the back. "Hang in there."

//

There's a round thing in the sky, that sometimes hides in shadows, turning and flipping, only sometimes showing it's full face.

It steals light, supposedly. Gemma talked to him about it one night, she said that the white of the disc and the halo of light it filters through the black of the night is artificial, reflected. Harry likes the idea of it, wants to touch it. Wants to know more about it.

But that's impossible, the disc is miles and miles away; untouchable.

Harry leans his head back against the chair, looking up at the stale, milky light and the stars stare right back at him.

"Hi," someone says and Harry jerks forward in shock.

He looks over and meets eyes with a brunet man leaning against the the divide between their balconies.

The man's bracelet is flickering a bright _ 03 _ in the night. Harry has four left today (he's spent the whole day inside his own flat).

Harry nods at the man, and the man smiles - eyes crinkling, nose scrunching up.

"Harry, right?" he asks.

He nods, his own eyebrows pulling together.

"Here." The man reaches into his trouser pocket and throws a small rectangle into Harry's lap.

Harry picks it up and tries to use the light of the disc to examine it. There's words in weird blocks embedded in the silver lay of the rectangle.

Harry looks up, trying to search the man's eyes, but it's too dark and shadows fall over them.

"What's this?" he asks.

The man just shakes his head, furrows his eyebrows pointedly at Harry, then leaves the balcony. Leaving Harry alone with the dark night wrapped around him like a blanket.

The rectangle is a port, Harry learns when he slips back into the artificial warmth of his flat, he angles the port towards his lamp.  _ Scouting Gen. 13, _ the script embedded in the metal reads. It's senseless - odd. Harry presses his thumb onto the grid anyways, making the import pop up from the top.

He puts the port into the cavity, and the telly bursts to life. The couch is soft and worn when he sinks into it, and Dusty jumps up into his lap, mewling and nuzzling her furry head into his side. He reaches a blind hand out to scratch between her ears when the anthem seeps through the speakers.

"Join us," a slightly familiar male voice says, the timbre filling the walls of his flat.

The screen goes from a light black to a large panoramic view of The Movement's boundaries. The camera skims over pods (the cities that are shaped in circles), flipping over the high-rising buildings and the bright blue of the bodies of water. There are rolling hills separating each pod, with high, green trees reaching towards the sky. The camera keeps moving, until it stops on a certain building and surges down. The building doesn't have a sign, just an arrow pointing upwards nestled in the middle of a circle.

The camera stays there, for nearly a minute. And then the whole video starts going backwards, starting at the arrow and panning until it's a view of the whole entire Movement colony.

"Join us," the voice says again.

The screen fades to black, after a few seconds, a date flickers onto the screen. The date is for next week.

"What?" he murmurs to himself.

He has half of a mind to grab the port and his scribe and go next door, to ask the brunet man why he gave this and what it means. But it's five minutes past curfew now.

Harry turns off the telly and scoops Dusty up in one hand. He has work tomorrow, he needs rest. Especially if Zayn still won't be back and he has to continue manning the desk alone.

//

"I've only been a Superior for about half a year now," Mr. Horan - Niall, he wants to be called, but Harry isn't comfortable calling a Superior by their first name, so he always pretends to forget. - says from where he's leaning against the desk. "And it's insane, mate, really. I never expected to become one. But one day I was pulled out of my desk and sat in a white chair. And that was that. I got my words back."

Harry hums, not looking up from where he's filing names under appointments for next week.

"Of course, it all came at a price. But it was worth it." Niall natters on. "Before this, I had a gig as a child counselor. Believe me when I say there's nothing harder than trying to make kids open up to you when you can only say four words."

The thing about Mr. Horan is that he constantly talks. He could probably hold a conversation with a hoverboard. Harry suspects that he would be the same if he was given the opportunity to have all of his words back, he would want to fill the air around him with his own thoughts, too. Like making up for lost time.

"Oh yeah," Niall snaps his fingers. "I actually came down here to give you something." Harry looks up to see him fishing around in his breast pocket. He gets out a piece of envelope, unfolds it, and smiles while handing it to Harry. "Be sure to read it when you get home."

After a couple more minutes filled with Niall's brogue harmonizing with Harry's muted acknowledgements, Niall decides that he actually does have to work sometimes, and he heads to the Superior lift with one last cheery smile aimed right at Harry.

Kids filter in and out, smiling at him and talking about anything that comes to their mind. Harry tries in vain to remember each child's last unmeasured phrase, still.

Two girls pile into the lobby, with big, blue eyes mirroring one another's. They're holding hands, fearful smiles etched on their faces when they tell him their names.

Harry watches silently as they both sit on chairs, still holding hands. Their knobby knees stick out from under the hem of their skirts, bumping into one another's sporadically. They whisper to one another, leaning in closer, keeping their last words pressed between their collar bones.

They're slight, too skinny. They might be from the less privileged side of the pod. Harry wants to slip them pieces of their lunch when he notices how much their patch worked shirts hang off their shoulders.

The door behind the desk buzzes. Harry looks over his shoulder and immediately meets cinnamon eyes. Zayn, he smiles. He still has the white piece of plastic stuck to his neck; but this time there are red marks around it, like he was trying to scratch it off.

Zayn smiles at Harry belatedly, stuffing his satchel into his cubby and takes his old seat. He uses a newer issued scribe, Harry notices. He doesn't know why that makes him feel sad. Like a battle that he wasn't even a part of has been lost.

Harry watches Zayn as he boots up his scribe and looks at the two girls, jaw slackening a little at the sight of the two. Harry guesses that Zayn pities how frail the twin girls look, as well.

"But it isn't fair!" one of the twins says, loudly. She looks around, hollow cheeks dusting pink. "It isn't." she says a decibel quieter.

The other twin moves her knee away from her sister, but keeps their hands tangled together.

"We don't have a say in it, though," she says.

Both of the twins level Harry and Zayn with a menacing glare that's actually effective, a rare thing for eight year olds to be able to accomplish.

"Why can't we be like -" the first twin starts loudly before clearing her throat nervously and repeating whatever she wanted to say in her twins ear.

"Everyone has to lose something." the twin answers.

Zayn makes a quiet sound of agreement that only Harry seems to pick up.

The girls' names are called moments later by a Superior. As soon as they leave, Zayn gets up and goes to his satchel. He comes back with that old, clunky scribe.

He winks at Harry before he turns back to the scribe, typing out something really quickly.

Surprisingly, he doesn't project anything. Harry's not sure what Zayn did, but the mischievous glint in his eye has him worried that if Zayn gets caught again, he'll never be able to come back.

//

Harry knows the man that is standing outside of the door. He knows the reason for the red marks around his wrist, the circles beneath his eyes, the rumpled state of his hair.

And Harry hates himself. He hates that he caused that. He hates that he's a brainless, stupid monster. It didn't hit him until a long time after that he could've stopped. That before everything even started that his own Superior said he could leave at anytime. That he continued hurting someone, making them scream and cry for mercy out of his own malicious intent. There's a steel weight on his chest, crushing each undeserving breath out of his mouth.

The man locks his cerulean eyes onto Harry's, narrowing his brows and pursing his lips. The thing about the man is that everything about him is so sharp and tiny. From his jawline to his ankles that are shown underneath his rolled up trousers. And Harry feels awful, for hurting something so frail, something that looks to be made out of glass. Harry is a sadist, and that's all there could possibly be to it.

He doesn't notice that Zayn has noticed the man as well until he watches Zayn stand up and walk to the glass window. He moves his hands in odd motions, and Harry wants to scream at him for being a bleeding idiot. Hand signals are strictly banned for all citizens, seeing as that is the language of most Unconformists. Anyone making a signal with their hands is openly conveying the message that theydo not care for the rules of their society. The punishment for someone using their hands to speak is an injection that makes them lose all mobility in their hands.

To Harry's complete astonishment, the man meets eyes with Zayn and moves his hands, too. In the middle of the bloody street, where anyone can see, anyone can report him. But the man just smirks and continues to move his hands.

Zayn nods at the man once before returning back to the desk.

" _ You are a sodding idiot, _ " Harry projects off his tablet. " _ Do you want to lose everything that you have left? _ "

Zayn shrugs and grabs his scribe, " _ It'd all be for a good cause, _ " he projects.

Harry doesn't know what he means by that, and he doesn't want to. So he gives Zayn one last disdainful glance and goes back to work.

A few minutes later, the twins both enter the lobby from the lift, hands entwined with their shiny, silver bracelets clinking together with each step. Their faces are somber, and one of the twin's eyes are red-rimmed, like she's been crying.

The sad masks quickly slip off when they look outside the window and towards the man, "Lou!" They both yell in unison before thundering out of the building and into the man's arms.

The man - Lou - smiles warmly at them, eyes crinkling into tiny, blue slits and his arms wrapped around them both. He presses kisses to both of their tiny, blonde heads. Harry can see the resemblance between the man and the twins, and - he notes grimly - both the man and the one twin's eyes looked eerily similar with leftover tears blurring their eyelids.

Zayn chuckles under his breath from beside him. When Harry piques a brow at him, he just shakes his head.

The man and the girls leave, but the man looks back through the window to make eye contact with Zayn before zeroing back in on the twin girls with a golden smile and eyes pressed so tightly together that there are tiny slits webbing outside of the corners.

It's sweet, really. The way that the man looks at those girls. It's a lot like how Gemma would look at him when he'd tap out knock-knock jokes for her on his scribe.

Zayn presses on Harry's forearm a few times. When he looks over at him, Zayn just casually slides his old scribe in front of him.

" _ What's in the envelope? _ " the scribe flickers before erasing the message. He meets Zayn's eyes, and Zayn just leans against the back of his chair and nods at the envelope sticking out of Harry's pocket.

Harry shrugs, gives Zayn back his scribe.

The good thing about Zayn is that he never pries, never presses, and when Harry wants a subject to be dropped - he drops it.

They both return to work, and it almost feels like everything's back to normal. If only there wasn't a silencer pressed into Zayn's skin and guilt flowing through his own veins.

//

Harry crouches down on his hover board, and shoves his hair off of his forehead. The air traffic is practically empty, no one else is whirring by his side or trying to inconspicuously fly around him because Harry might have his hover board on a slower setting. Maybe. To ensure balance, is all.

There's a breeze drifting through his fingers that is a few steps behind being full-fledged wind. It's peaceful, being in the air like this. He almost feels like a bird.

The muted hum of another hoverboard nears him, he glances over to see the brunet that is probably his neighbor flying beside hime. The man's dewy, cinnamon eyes crinkle as his  mouth pulls into a welcoming smile. The man nods at him, he nods back.

They stay silent until they reach the flat building. Both of them climb off their hover boards at the same time. The man has a fancier model, one that he can press a button and it'll fold in on itself, pocket-sized. Harry just tucks his under his arm.

When Harry reaches his door, the man waits behind him. It's odd, kind of rude. But Harry still let's the man into his flat when he raises his brow in question, asking for entrance. Harry sneaks a glance at the man's wristband when he passes.  _ 04. _

The man settles on his couch and pulls a scribe out of his satchel. It's an extremely new model, has all of the bells and whistles. Thinner than a coin slit, probably weightless. The man pulls his stylus from on top of his ear and starts writing. He hands it off to Harry after he's done with a sheepish smile.

_ "My name is Liam, _ " the scribe says.  _ "And I know that you know way too much." _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are appreciated! hmu on [tumblr](http://voguelourry.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

His fingers twitch uselessly at his sides. He's numb; in this sort of headspace where he can hear the thrum of his heartbeat echoing throughout his skull, the tug of the left side of his lower lip as he tries to suppress his frown, the bead of sweat trailing over the bumps of his spine. Liam's eyes bore into his own, waiting patiently.

"It's your choice," Liam says aloud.

But he doesn't really have one, now does he? And it's not like he wants to say no. But. It's a shock, is what it is.

Liam notes his hesitation, which can't be a good thing. He grabs his scribe and writes some more.

" _ Unless you're already partaking in another type of... _ "the scribe projects. " _ group? _ "

Harry shakes his head wildly, takes his own stylus and writes.

" _ I'm not in any group." _

_ "So you'll take it? _ "

Harry nods, projects, " _ I'll take it. _ "

Liam smiles, stands, and holds out his hand. Harry stands too, shaking his hand. Liam has a strong grip and a pleased look that's making the sides of his eyes crinkle up.

Harry leads him out of his flat, nodding charitably at Liam when he opens his own door. Harry can hear the soft thrums of the telly sneaking out of Liam's now open door. Harry guesses that Liam has a mate, someone to kiss the crinkles beside his eyes and to save their words for. He gets an uncomfortable tug in his stomach. Something that Gemma would ruffle his hair about and cluck something under her breath calling him jealous.

Harry closes the door to his own flat, leaving the hall and Liam's lively flat shut away. Dusty mewls and paws at his leg, gazing up at him with big, watery eyes. He picks her up and scratches between her ears, doing it more so to calm himself rather than to appease her. He tilts his head against the door. His brain feels like the mush that's in the grey area between snow and rain that falls in March.

He very well might be dreaming. This could all just be a very elaborate scheme that his own mind cooked up. It's that unreal. He wants to talk to his mum, but he's not allotted for a visit until the next few days.

His mind is just repeating the constant optimistic monologue of:  _ I can do more than send children to lose their methods of expressing themselves, I can make Mum proud, I can be more than who I am. _ And it's all exhilarating and mind-numbing at once. Harry sits down on the couch, letting Dusty settle against his side.

His mind flutters in between being awake and asleep, and when he does slip under, he feels his mouth itch into a small smile.

//

He adjusts the collar of his shirt and takes a deep breath in. There's a group of people waiting outside a door, pressing their hands hesitantly onto a scanner and smiling with relief when the door opens for them.

When it's Harry's turn, he tries to not flinch away from the new-edition scanner that makes it feel like needles are roving over the entirety of his palm at a supersonic pace once, twice and then the door is whooshing open and he is taking a step inside. 

The room looks like any other room that is made for The Movement. An overabundance of smooth whites and crisp steels, large windows overlooking the tops of lesser buildings and people flitting by on their hoverboards. There are people everywhere: ones with bracelets and without. Mr. Horan is in the middle of the room, smiling and shaking hands, illuminating the room with his unusual aura. Harry takes a seat by another man, one dressed in a suit with patches on the elbows and hair pushed off his long face.

The man offers him a quick smile, Harry smiles back.

Sooner rather than later, everyone sits down. All beside a man with brown hair that has silver threaded along his temples. He's dressed in an off-white suit and his smile is dressed thinly across his face.

"Welcome," the man says. "To the Next Generation, where our main goal is to achieve greatness."

_ Greatness, _ he repeats in his mind. He can't hold back his small grin. He looks at the man beside him, and the man doesn't seem to be able to hold back his ecstasy either.

"You all have everything that we can possibly need for a next Generation to pass on the responsibilities to. You have the genetics, the skill, the loyalty." The man flits his eyes across the room. "And that's exactly what future Superiors need."

Harry digs his hand into his own thigh, piercing his nails through his trousers. Trying to check if he's still awake.

"Of course, there's a process that you have to go through before you can practice all of the luxuries that being a Superior entails." The man pauses for effect. "And it will be rigorous. It will test your loyalty, your authority, and your talents."

//

"Sigmund Freud, a man from the Dark Times, claimed that dreams are the way to get a direct glimpse into the subconscious." A slight woman with a too-big suit says. "And that's what you're here for. The Movement needs to know if your subconscious holds any rebellious thoughts that even you are not aware of. Right now, you are being handed a small metal disc. On one side of the disc, there is a button. Please press it. Great, now put the disc to your temple."

Harry does what she asks and as soon as the metallic disc is on his temple, there's a zap permeating in his skull. Like there's a thousand tiny jolts moving through his cranium.

"I will be monitoring your dreams from a separate room. Sweet dreams, everyone." The woman leaves without a word, and hands are pressing on Harry's chest, pushing him onto a cot. He spares a quick glance around the room, nearly ten other people are being forced onto other cots as well.

He looks up at the person who pushed him onto the cot, and above the frayed, grey collar that the man has on, is a silencer. The man's eyes catch his own, and the man shrugs like he's not affected by the fact that he doesn't have any words, and that he'll never be able to hear his own voice again.

All of the people in grey file out of the room, and then the lights are out.

He can't fall asleep on command, he just can't. He turns over on the stiff cot and looks at nothing. When he was little and couldn't sleep, he would sneak into Gemma's bed. She would always open up her duvet for him and allow him to burrow under her bony arm and settle against her side, letting him rest his head on her ribs. He would always fall asleep to the rise and fall of her stomach as she took in slow, measured breaths. Her room felt like home to him, a place to hide from the emptiness and the all consuming loneliness that came with silence. Gemma had this aura about her that practically crackled. She always made sound with her presence even when she was completely silent.

His first thought as soon as he falls asleep is to  _ Find Gemma _ .

He's running down a hallway, a weird kind of hall that he's never been in before. It has brown floors and grey walls and several doors on either side. He slides his hands over the cracked paint of the doors, pressing his forearm against random parts of the wall in hopes that there's an invisible scanner somewhere that will allow him to open at least one of the doors.

"Harry," someone calls. He stops. It takes him a while to try and place it. "Harry." the person screams.

And the person is Gemma.

"Gemma." He yells back, in no sincere direction in particular. "Gem. Where are you?"

He smacks on the doors, the walls, he keeps running down the endless hall. The weird floors creak and groan beneath his feet. His heart is thundering in his ears, at a rapid staccato that harmonizes with his frantic knocking on random doors.

"Harry, I'm. Fuck." Gemma takes in a loud, pained breath that spears through Harry's heart. "I'm right here."

It's from behind him. Harry turns around and all of a sudden, the doors and the worn hallway is gone. He's in a room that has a lone window letting in sunlight. It's bathing the room in soft orange and yellow hues, and right in the middle, settled in a chair and haloed in a light that makes the ends of her her hair drip gold - is Gemma. He feels his feet give out from under him, and now he's on the floor, looking up at Gemma. Just like how he always has when he was younger. Figuratively and literally.

"Gemma," he breathes. "Where are you? Are you alright?"

"I'm right here, H." She says softly, like that answers everything.

"No, you're not. This isn't real, Gem. None of it is."

Gemma purses her lips, leans back against her chair. "You've gotten quite pessimistic since I've left." she says, deviating from the original topic completely.

_ Since I've left, _ she had said. Making it sound like she chose to leave, like she just moved out of the flat. Like her being gone isn't a huge fucking deal.

"You didn't leave, you were taken away." Harry shakes his head. "Mum misses you, you know. I miss you."

"And I miss you too, H." her voice softens. "But in this world, things are a lot bigger than us and our measly emotions."

"It shouldn't be that way. It just, it shouldn't. I miss you, Gem, and I should be allowed to, too."

"There's a difference between what should happen and what can happen. This world doesn't cater to our feelings, and the sooner you learn that, the better." Gemma tucks piece of her wildly long hair behind her ear, the shadows from the window falling over a bruise on her neck where a silencer should be. "Listen, H. I know you think you're about to be a part of something great, and I'll support you no matter what. But, just. Tell me that you're doing this Superior thing because you support the cause and want to help The Movement. Don't do this because of the incentive of unlimited words. Don't throw yourself into this for selfish reasons."

Harry crosses his ankles and looks up at Gemma, wanting to be able to give her a straight answer. To tell her that yes, yes he's doing this because he thinks that he's best suited as a Superior, that he supports the ethics and morals of The Movement wholly, and that he'd be able to do anything that would be asked of him. But he just can't. He doesn't think he'd be able to steal a family member from their home and whisk them off to an uncharted place. He won't be able to slap a silencer on anyone's neck, to give orders to cease mobility in a person's hand. To look at everyone with a bracelet and know that he isn't in any way more deserving of having unlimited words than them.

He's selfish if he takes this, he is. But it might be too late to back out now. Gemma is still staring at him, waiting, but the sympathetic flash in her eyes tells him that she already knows what he's thinking.

"You're a smart person, H. And I know you'll always do the right thing for the right reasons."

Gemma stands, and the window behind her expands to where all of the walls have turned into glass, letting sunlight engulf the room with a stunning shade of golden yellow, outlining every object in the room, making Gemma look unearthly real.

"Don't leave, Gem. We can just... We can stay here. Forever."

"That's not how things work, Harry." She shakes her head, making her long hair fall behind her shoulder once she's done. Her features take on a teasing lilt after a second. "And you shouldn't go around promising your forevers to just anybody, now, you hear?"

Harry chuckles, swallows down his response that The Movement's already decided that he doesn't deserve a forever with anybody. Instead he just says, "I hear you, Gem, loud and clear."

Gemma pulls him upwards on his feet and into an embrace, her head tucked against his chest and he inhales the scent of dirt and flowers that is Gemma and her heart is thrumming a whole beat faster than his when he listens for it. He tries to speed up his breathing so he can synchronize his heart to hers. She feels so real like this, like she's actually right there with him.

Gemma detaches from the embrace, presses her fingers into the inner crook of his elbow three times.

Harry wakes up, his mind echoing his response to her of  _ I love you, too. _

The light flicks on, emanating a mechanical whirr throughout the room. It burns his eyes, almost too bright. The others are waking up too, stretching and opening their mouths around silent yawns. The person to his right spares him a quick nod that Harry returns charitably.

_ I don't deserve to be here.  _ He isn't anymore qualified for having the freedoms that the people closest to him will never be offered. He wants to go up to someone, ask why he was chosen. Maybe Liam will know, but he more than likely won't. Liam might not even be a fully privileged Superior yet. He might actually still be in the "initiation process" just like Harry, just further ahead.

The hoards of people in grey filter back into the room, one person on the side of each cot. Every single one of them has a silencer. The person beside Harry's cot can't be older than him, his skin is darker and he has almond eyes. The man nods minutely at Harry like an acknowledgment of his presence and - maybe - of his inner panic.

The plump-ish Superior returns, her lips twisted in a tight line. She starts rambling about how everyone's dreams were closely monitored and how the results were mostly satisfying.

"The screening isn't anywhere near to being over, you still have several more stages to go through. Being a Superior requires full cooperation and obedience both physically and mentally." She paces the room, eyes flitting across it, she meets with Harry's for a second, he looks away. "Insurrectionists, please remove the discs from the Next Gens."

The brunet man puts his hand to Harry's forehead and extracts the disc, it makes his temple burn for a second, but the pain leaves as soon as it comes. The constant vibration that was roving through his ears finally stops, thankfully.

"Thank you to everyone for your cooperation. You may leave now. And remember to always pay close mind to your daily agenda in order to be aware of the next meeting."

//

Harry let's out a quick breath, tucking his knit cap over his ears and leaning forward on the board. It's exceptionally windy today, causing the leaves on trees to whip wildly and for his board to veer slightly off his path every once in awhile. He only has a few more minutes until he'll be at his flat. There he can sit by his space heater and have Dusty curl up over his feet. Maybe he can try and get the Nutrition System to let him have a warm drink. A bird flies closely beside him, chirping at him. Harry reaches out to touch its feathers just as the wind makes his hoverboard go off course.

For one, completely frightening second, there is nothing but air underneath the soles of his shoes. He reaches his arm out to try and grab his board, but it's out of reach. His body starts plummeting downwards, his heart feels like it's in his stomach. Harry doesn't look down, he just keeps watching the board as it keeps heading straight, and, with no one to steer it any other way, it runs straight into a tree.

And then his body hits the ground - head first, then his back - with a hard thwack.

Everything hurts. It might seem a little overdone when someone says that everything hurts, but seriously, everything hurts. His head is pounding, his shoulders throbbing, his legs are sore, and his ribs feel like they're being pulled apart by mechanical hands. That's only a few of the things that hurt at the moment. Pain is a melodramatic thing, one of the most demanding emotions. When it's present, it forces its way to the forefront. Pain is the only thing that's storming through his brain right now. He almost doesn't even really take into account that he isn't still sprawled out on the ground in the North Side of his pod, a few kilometers off from where his flat is located. His flat. He takes a harried look at his surroundings: wooden floors, a soft flickering from a light fixture, picture displays sprinkled over the wall that's too far away for him to make out the people in, and a muted telly. It's definitely not his home. There's more, of course, the foreign flat that he's in is obviously lived in - probably by two people, if the shoes shoved against the wall are anything to go by - but it's ultimately not Harry's home, which is the scariest part.

It's not really scary. It's just foreign and he's entirely out of his element, like he was on a ship that was set off course and he's the crew that had to wake up to uncharted and unplanned for lands. He wants to figure out where he is and how he got there. Then it'll all be okay. He just needs an explanation.

"Oh," someone says from behind the couch he's laying on. "You're up."

Harry rises so he can see who it is. He's not all that surprised, if anyone were to pick him up and take him to their flat, it'd be Liam in all of his thick-browed and warm-eyed glory. He has a teacup in his hand that is spilling steam over the brim, it looks like an appetizingly fresh brew, and Harry's diet plan hasn't allowed him to have a cuppa for weeks.

Liam folds his legs under himself on the couch, a reasonable distance away from Harry and holds up his teacup, silently asking 'Tea?' Harry shakes his head. If his diet plan doesn't include it, he probably shouldn't consume it. There might be a reason. Maybe his vitals change everytime he drinks tea, he doesn't know. But The Movement's decided what's best for Harry, and he should just go by that. Liam gets up and brings Harry a glass of water anyways, which probably says something about Liam's character. But Harry's in too much pain to really analyze where Liam falls. If he's good or bad or somewhere in between.

Liam also brought back his scribe, and now he's writing something with his silver-plated stylus. He hands the scribe over to Harry with a sheepish smile and a concerned tilt to his eyebrows.

_ "I saw you fall off your hover board, are you okay? Do you have any severe pains, dizziness, trouble moving any part of your body?" _

Harry takes Liam's stylus from his outstretched fingers and tried to lift his legs before answering.  _ "I'm in pain, mostly in my ribs and my neck. It's nothing too bad, though. It's quite embarrassing that you saw that spill. I swear I'm usually more deft in the air on a normal day."  _ He adds another part as an afterthought. _ "Did you happen to see where my hover board ended up? I know it hit a tree, but I wasn't able to see where it landed." _

_ "I was able to grab it, but it's damage is too severe for it to even collapse so I had to take all of your things here by foot. Do you want to see it?" _

Harry stares at what Liam wrote until the scribe automatically deletes all of the words. And then he nods silently. Liam gets up with a gentle pat on Harry's shoulder and walks over to the fireplace. He picks up a mangled slab of metal that was resting by the hearth and Harry's heart plummets when he recognizes the copper plating that is unmistakably the decal on his board and the power signal is void of any life.

Liam sits the warped hover board on Harry's lap and twists his hands nervously before grabbing his scribe.

_ "I swear it's probably not as bad as it looks." _

Liam's probably trying to be reassuring, but they both know how much hoverboard repairs cost, and Harry definitely can't afford another one until The Movement allots for him to have a transport upgrade. He runs his hand over the copper plating searching if he can still run his hand over the worn engraving that's been there for years.

He's been using Gemma's board ever since she left. Mostly because this was the board that he learned how to fly on, and also because it made him feel like he was taking Gemma everywhere with him. Now the board is just broken metal, like how Gemma just isn't there anymore.

Liam passes the scribe to Harry again with a smile.  _ "I can help fix it.. If you want?" _

Harry shakes his head.  _ "I can't ask that of you. You've already given me too much." _

_ "No, it's fine, really. My mate, he's a mechanic for The Movement, works at Superior HQ and everything. He wouldn't mind fixing it for you. He loves working with hoverboards, it'd be like a blessing to him." _ Harry knows that he shouldn't accept, that he's basically taking advantage of Liam, but he really needs to have his hover board. So he nods in acceptance after a prolonged period of the mumbling telly filling the silence and long after the scribe’s screen has faded to  black.

_ "He'll be so ecstatic. I hope that he'll be able to come home tonight. He often doesn't, but that's understandable. His job is highly important."  _ Liam writes, his ears turning pink at the tips as he continues.  _ "He's actually on the track to become a Superior - just like you and me. He's really, really lovely." _

Harry nods and takes a shaky sip of his water. The room appears to be blurring at the edges, like he's a camera that's repeatedly losing focus. It's like he can't really process what Liam is trying to tell him on the scribe, like his mind is a defunct scanner that lacks fingertip recognition.

Liam's massive hands rest on his cheeks after prolonged moments of his thoughts repeating  _ Where am I?, I've forgotten how to breathe _ , and  _ It hurts, it hurts, everything hurts _ . He can see Liam's stretched lips shaping out  _ 'Are you okay? _ ' and he tries to nod. But.

But his ribs are contracting in on his lungs and he feels like his skin is stretched too thin over his bones and he just wants to cry and go back to his own bed and try and figure out how to breathe again.

It goes like that for a few more seconds - or maybe hours, Harry isn't sure, all he knows is that this white flash of pain seems to last forever and then for no time at all - and then the room comes back into focus and there's a cold flannel draped over his forehead.

"You had a panic attack," Liam's voice comes from somewhere near the now-silent telly. But, no, that's not right. Liam only has one word at most left today.

Harry tries to sit up but all he manages to do is sink farther into the plush couch and let loose a low, guttural sound from his throat.

"Don't try and move, you'll hurt yourself even more. I'll go get you some more water." Liam's feet softly pad away and Harry slowly raises his arm to move his matted hair out of his eyes.

Liam stands over harry with a sweating glass of water clutched in his hand and sleek, grey pads stuck to the sides of his forehead.

"It's an invention my mate made." Liam explains without moving his mouth, pointing at the grey pads."It lets you speak to somebody without wasting his words. It's a prototype, so it might cut out every once in awhile. He's only made two so far."

That's really impressive. Liam's mate must be seriously innovative if he could just dream up that idea and actually be able to make it.

Harry takes the water from Liam's hand. It's cool; sliding down his throat like a savior. He didn't notice earlier, but his mouth was extremely dry. He tries to sit down the glass but can't bring his arms to allow him to reach for the coffee table. It's like his whole entire body is made out of lead.

Liam takes the glass from Harry's hands with a warm smile and sits it down on the coffee table. The room smells musty, but also sweet. His eyes are starting to feel heavy again.

"Who's this, then?" A voice that definitely isn't Liam's asks from somewhere behind the couch. Harry doesn't even try to seek out its source. He's so tired.

Liam's eyes are radiant as they glance over at the voice. His face seems to take on a different shape; becoming softer and more open. Like there isn't a chance he could ever be ridiculed for having such vulnerable features. Harry's seen that look before. In his Mum, when she would look at his dad before he left. He doesn't know what to call that look, or the emotion behind it. He just knows that it's something fragile and something that he will never have.

"This is Harry. My assigned recruit. He had a hoverboard crash." Liam presses his left hand into his choppily cut hair. "He's also our neighbor."

"Oh, it's nice to meet you, Harry." The voice comes closer and then Harry is looking into the eyes of its owner. And Harry - he can't breathe, again.

It's a stupefying rush of _ Oh my God _ and  _ It can't be _ . His heartbeat is racing up and down in his own ears and his vision is swimming around the room. He's hit again with the scent of the room - of musk and cinnamon and something else that he can't name but finds a sense of comfort in.

"Mr. Tomlinson," Harry finally croaks, voice awe-filled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, hmu on [tumblr](http://voguelourry.tumblr.com) and leaves kudos and comments!


	7. Chapter 7

He looks different than the last two times he's seen him; more sated, less hard edges, fringe flopping over his forehead easily. His blue eyes are at a mixture of turmoil. Harry can almost fall into the false sense of  _ It's okay _ that Louis' eyes seem to be radiating. But then he remembers. This.. person. He's an Unconformist. An awful one, at that. Someone that's so vile and rebellious that he had to be punished. Someone that The Movement sees as a threat. And even worse, Harry electrocuted him. Harry made that man feel such an intense pain that he required medical care, all while staring him in the eyes. He hurt Liam's mate. He hurt the person that makes Liam go pliant and look like he's been sent to a far away place where happiness is the only emotion to be felt.

"Louis, actually. And you're Harry, right? Liam's talked of you before." Louis. He looks skittish, eyes flitting from Liam to Harry and back to Liam again. "Li, do grab our guest some healing salve, yeah?"

Liam silently walks out of the room and towards a hallway. Harry looks up at Louis, taking in the small scars on his temple that his hair doesn't quite cover.  _ I did that, I hurt Liam's mate. _ A thousand questions are reverberating through his entire being. Blood pumping through his veins asking a silent  _ How are you here? Liam said that you're going to be a superior - that's not possible, right? How are you such an awful Unconformist while still sitting here at ease, like you can't be dragged away from your mate at any given moment?  _ All he manages to do is wheeze at him.

The man grabs a scribe so thin that it's practically invisible. He hurriedly writes before shoving it into Harry's hands.

He brings it up to his face to read,  _ "Don't. Say. Anything. Liam doesn't know that I'm anything but a mechanic that's about to become a Superior. And that's all he will ever know. Breathe a word otherwise, and I can have you killed. Hell, I will kill you myself." _

Harry keeps the scribe until it automatically clears itself. He doesn't know what to say. He wants to say sorry for electrocuting him, but he also isn't all that apologetic. This man is.. vile. Completely undeserving of Liam. Harry doesn't doubt that Louis would actually kill him. The Movement has him marked as a dangerous Unconformist for a reason. As to why They let Louis run freely with a mate - Harry doesn't know.

"Here, Harry. You mind raising your shirt? We'll put the healing salve on your stomach. You said your ribs were hurting, right?"

Harry nods minutely and slowly raises his shirt. The stretch of his arms and his abdomen causes a sharp burn throughout his nervous system.

Both Liam and Louis wince as soon as his shirt is raised all the way up to his pectorals.

"Quite the beating you took there, yeah?" Louis asks, his eyebrows furrowing together. Liam elbows him with a quiet, condescending  _ Lou. _

"Sorry, he has no filter sometimes." Liam says apologetically but the lines in his face are still radiating fondness. "But you are quite bruised. Maybe we can spot you a quick injector, too?"

"Don't think that doping him up will fix the poor lad, Li." But Louis still leaves the room and comes back with the injector.

Harry holds out his wrist and Liam presses a sterile wipe to his forearm. The needle pierces his skin for just a brief second, and then it feels like Harry can breathe again. Maybe even walk without breaking into tears.

He leaves a while later, with a nodded promise to Liam that he'd check in tomorrow and Harry’s hoverboard left at Louis' at-home-workplace. Dusty is mewling at his feet as soon he enters his flat. His in-home monitors are beeping for his attention, beckoning him to sign in that he's home and for him to eat his daily meal.

His door knocks as soon as the nightly program of The Movement: A Savior in the Shadows begins to play on the television. He slides his spoon back into his bowl of rice and answers the door without checking his camera to see who it is.

It's a surprise to see Louis standing at his threshold, bundled in a knitted jumper with his fringe rumpled. He's holding a small scribe that is large and clunky - not unlike Zayn's. Louis shoulders past Harry uninvited, sucking the air out of the room with his presence. Harry closes the door and turns to see Louis settled on Harry's couch, absentmindedly stroking at Dusty's back. He piques an eyebrow at Harry, like he's not breaking at least fifty rules of human conduct. Now Harry can see the Unconformist qualities in him.

Harry goes back to his bowl of rice while Louis takes to scribbling at the scribe. The blurry screen is shoved in his face after a while. Harry takes it with a pointed huff.

_ "No mate, then?"  _ it says. Harry shakes his agreeably. Louis snatches the scribe and hands it back to Harry. _ "Not surprised,"  _ it reads.

His eyes roll on his own accord and he just pushes the scribe back to Louis, who just lets out an airy chuckle.

_ "So, do you just go around electrocuting people, or was I just a one time thing?" _

_ "I wouldn't quite count you as a 'person'." _

_ "Ouch. I just stopped by to check on you. And also tell you that your board should be back to how it was in no time." _

_ "Great, thank you."  _ Harry writes.  _ "You can leave now." _

Louis takes the scribe back but doesn't write anything for a while. He instead starts to watch the program.

This night's episode is talking about the importance of The Movement’s system. That there is a reason behind manipulating the nervous system to only permit four words being said per day, and that The Movement assigns occupations and mates for a reason. It is all in the name of establishing harmony throughout the world.

_ "It's all a load of shite, you know that, right?" _ Louis writes.

Harry shakes his head. So what if it is? Its their lives, and it can't quite be changed. He's content with how he is, actually.

_ "Liam doesn't know that you're an Unconformist."  _ He replies instead.

_ "He doesn't. And you won't tell him, right?"  _ Louis hands the scribe to him and for the first time Harry actually sees it. Embedded on his wrist is the bracelet, of course, but the number. It's just not possible.

Standing starkly on Louis' wrist is an 08. He grabs Louis' hand and tries to look at it closer, maybe the numbers are just a trick of light. But Louis snatches his hand away, makes it obvious that it's not.

Louis looks harried. He stands, finally. Making Dusty slide off his lap. His eyes are a manic shade of swirling blue and grey.

"You won't tell anyone, right?" Louis says clearly. Voice lilting and breaking.

He wants to scream; to demand  _ How _ . To try and figure out the endless puzzle that Louis is. But the pleading look in Louis' eyes. They're scared and vulnerable while the set of his jaw radiates a different message entirely. Harry looks at Louis and in some weird, distorted way he sees Gemma.

Harry takes the clunky scribe, heavy in his hands.

_ "I won't tell." _

//

This is not what Harry had expected.

He stands in the doorway, mildly confused, still clutching his scribe, then backs all of the way out to examine the digital sign beside the door to make sure he's got the right office. He does. But the group of people certainly don't seem to look like the 'highly esteemed individuals' that the video message he was sent the other day told him he'd be meeting with.

For one, Louis Tomlinson is in there, in all of his fluffy haired and glinting eyed glory, with his hideously dirty shoes propped up on the pristine white table before him. Also, all of the other people sitting around him look haggard. There's an overabundance of deflated hair and unkempt clothing. A bloke off to the corner of the room has a literal patch on his trousers. None of these people look like they can be Superiors at any time in the future, and this is the placement that Harry was categorized into.

"Mr. Styles, nice of you to join us." A man with grey-streaked hair says now, raising his voice. Harry makes an aborted sound under his breath and takes a step forward. "Come in, come in. We don't bite."

"Yes we do," Louis smirks and the red haired man settled beside him actually laughs when Louis fake-bares his teeth at Harry.

He does come in, still hesitant of what's going on, and settles into a vacant chair slowly. The fox-haired man clears his throat and stands quickly and claps his hands together. Harry watches as he walks to the very front of the room and presses a button to close and lock the door. He looks mildly intimidating and extremely angry for no reason at all. The man paces across the room and let's out a small laugh.

"Basically, you all suck," The man starts. Harry's heart drops somewhere into his stomach and from the end of the table, Louis snorts quietly. The man keeps standing, meeting eyes with every person's eyes in the room with a dramatic, suspenseful flare. "But, sadly, The Movement requires your skill sets."

"You all show traces of disloyalty, of incompetency, and also of rebelliousness. If The Movement wasn't such a peaceful government sanction - you all would be punished for treason." The man lets out a sarcastic laugh. "Fucking hell, we have one of the most volatile Unconformists sitting right in our Headquarters, and what do we do with him? We offer him a way to have a high standing in our government. There are loads more people who are tonnes more deserving to be offered to be Superior. But we have to have you in order to withhold the power that The Movement has."

What. Just - what? Harry doesn't, no, he absolutely can not be classed as someone like them. He loves The Movement. He is all for what they do, for how they maintain peace and how they have avoided all of the problems that past societies have had. He isn't disloyal. He deserves this - he does. And, even more so important, why does The Movement need Harry? What makes him special? Does he know too much, could that be why? He doesn't know. The past few weeks have just been a cluster fuck of unanswered questions that have left him bewildered, slightly chuffed, and then also slightly offended.

"But we can change that. The Movement can turn you into someone that is deserving of Superior status. We will test you, reform you, perfect you, until you are suitable of receiving this status." The man clears his throat presses his hand to the wall, cueing up a hologram that settles a few inches above the table. "Please get out your scribes and take notes over what you will be viewing. If you have any questions - save them."

//

"Harry," Louis grabs his arm and pulls him to a stop at the threshold of the office.

Harry's ego is bruised and his mind is now chopped full of what outstanding citizens under The Movement do (answer: everything Harry has been doing his whole life. He's a loyal citizen. Why isn't he treated like one?), and he's really not in the mindset to be dealing with small, fluffy haired Unconformists with no sense of common privacy. Harry stays, nonetheless, but he does muster up a semi-annoyed glare for Louis, which he just snorts at and adjusts the silver pads on his forehead before continuing, lips closed during the whole projection.

"Your hover board. I managed to smooth out some pieces of the framework, but there's still a lot to be done. It's a very old model, one that the parts will be very hard to find. I will probably just have to modify it into a whole entire different version if you want it to be saved. - Which you do, right? I'm not doing all of this for nothing?"

Harry nods, a man behind them clears his throat for them to get out of the doorway. Harry nods apologetically and starts to walk down the sidewalk. Louis is still talking (sort of) so Harry politely keeps a slow pace so that Louis can walk with him. Outstanding citizen, conforming to others needs. He is practically a 'refurbished delinquent' already, if it was up to Sir's standards. (Sir being the male Superior that is now the entire group's handler. He angrily demanded that he only be called Sir by the whole lot until they are actually deserving of knowing his name. Then Louis, the Unconformist that he is, decidedly called him prat for the rest of the meeting).

"So," the projection of Louis' thoughts pull him out of his reverie. "Are you in?"

Harry shoots him a dubious look, trying to make it obvious non-verbally that he didn't catch all of what Louis had asked. Louis sighs and rolls his eyes, hip checking Harry, making him stumble over his own feet.

"Do you want to stop by my flat and look over the plans for your hover board?" Harry bites his lip and stares up at the sky, watching hoverboards flit about above them. "Liam will be pleased if you drop by. He thinks you're alright."

Harry hesitates, then nods. He can't let Louis fuck up his board too royally. That board has a lot of sentimental value to him, seeing as it used to be Gemma's and all.

Louis and Liam's flat is just as he remembers. Warm and inviting. The pictures in the entryway are all of Louis and Liam smiling dopily, several with Louis slotted under Liam's massive arm. The fireplace is on and flickering, and Liam is sprawled out over the couch, sweat dripping down his forehead and eyes twisted in pain.

"Feel better, love?" Louis asks Liam, walking over to him and pressing a swift kiss to his mouth. Liam groans in response. "I brought back a stray."

Liam sits up slightly and meets eyes with Harry, instantly smiling, albeit slightly pained. His hair is deflated and he doesn't look as carefully composed as usual, Harry likes it. It makes Liam seem a little less like an unreal mutation of muscled robot and puppies and a lot more like a human with sweat stains. Liam makes a small sound in the back of his throat, Louis instantly reacts like he actually understands what that means, handing the silver pads for Liam to project his thoughts with.

"Harry! What brings you here?" Liam projects and sits up straighter, pushing some of his hair off his forehead. "Louis, get him some water. Sorry, I wasn't ready for company. I've been feeling poorly lately."

Harry nods agreeably. Liam's so kind that it's almost awkward at times. The telly's images reflects in Liam's large, dopey pupils. Louis comes back from the kitchen with a sweating glass of water and a sheepish look. He thrusts the glass into Harry's hand and presses a lingering hand on Liam's chest.

"I'm going to go show Harry his board. You'll be alright?" Louis asks and Liam nods. Louis turns out of the living room, Harry lingers there until Louis pokes his head around the corner of the wall and signals for Harry to follow with a restless look.

"Forgive me for the mess," Louis' thoughts project in an almost absent mumble before he pushes open a door. He walks in breezily, flicking on the light sensor.

Harry follows and pigeon toes himself in the threshold as Louis works himself through the maze of random metal parts and trinkets. The place is an absolute trainwreck. A polar opposite to the rest of what Harry's seen of Louis and Liam's flat. There's random mugs and trash nestled between massive, expensive looking pieces of tech. Louis keeps weaving through the assortment until he reaches a desk that is cloaked in pieces of metal and and magnetic scribes with diagrams scrawled on them.

Louis twists and kicks something under the wool blanket hard, hissing, "Wake up, you sod."

"Mmph," the wad of blankets groans and twitches. Harry nearly screams when the blankets are shoved away to reveal Zayn fucking Malik, of all people. He's sleep-rumbled and glaring at Louis half-heartedly. Harry doesn't know that he let out a shocked sound until Zayn turns his puffy eyes to him, his only reaction being a pointed eyebrow raise at Louis.

"You idiot. Liam's home sick today. What if he would've came in here and saw you? I'm going to start not letting you come in if you keep being reckless like this." Louis hisses quietly and Zayn just shoots him a relaxed look that says  _ You wouldn't _ , all while scratching absently at his silencer. Zayn's skin is red around the stark white, Harry notes. "Just - be careful next time. And actually do your job for once."

Zayn stands and walks to the window, grabbing a depleted hoverboard that's under the pane before shoving it open. He makes to leave but Louis stops him with his thought projection. "Don't forget to tell them my message."

Zayn shoots Louis a two-fingered salute before hopping out of the window with his hover board under his feet. The whole movement looks breezy and simple when Zayn does it, but if Harry were to try it, he'd probably brain himself before making it all of the way out of the window.

Louis watches out of the window for a second before turning to Harry, "You didn't see that. Any of it."

Harry mimes zipping his lips, making sure to show that his bracelet reads _ 00 _ .

Louis lets out a small snort, turning away from Harry and projecting. "Funny."

Louis clears a spot out on his desk, signaling for Harry to come closer. When he peers over Louis's shoulder, he sees the copper plating from his hover board. Louis is actually quiet, for once. But the energy in the room isn't. It's buzzing with some sort of promise of complications and mischievousness. Maybe the reason for that is because this Louis' space and he's so close to Louis. Louis is Trouble Redefined - capital letters and all - but he is also this magnet that pulls you in, promising fun and freedom. But it's a trap. That's what Uconformists do, they promise freedom and happiness and breaths of fresh air. But once you have that, it's prominent that the other side of the line is just as shite as the other side. That's just life: promises are only made to advertise, and reality is always a let down. He gets that, so he doesn't indulge Louis' smoke and mirrors.

Louis runs his fingers over the engraving that their father ordered -  _ For Gems: Be Safe  _ \- and clears his throat purposefully. "Did you know who owned this before you?"

Harry nods.

"I did, too." Louis looks over his shoulder and makes eye contact with Harry. "How well did you know her?"

How well did he - Harry doesn't know how to answer that. Even if he had four words, more than four words, he wouldn't be able to express how well he knew Gemma, and not just because they were siblings. Harry and Gemma would stay up late, writing on the old parchment that their Grandfather would slide to them, telling stupid stories. They would talk about their days, how lonely everything is, how they thirsted to be more than just two simple kids with clipped words. And towards the end Gemma would tell Harry stories about the past. That's what she called it; not the Dark Ages or The Lesser Years or the Era of Terror like how history books would call it. Just the past, a term with just enough whimsy that didn't make the world before them sound completely horrifying. She would tell Harry how she felt about everything. Harry can honestly say that he knew Gemma better than anyone else, and it kind of hurts for someone to look at him and like he was beneath them when it came to Gemma. He knows Gemma, she was his role model. She still kind of is.

Harry lets out a hollow laugh and reaches for a cleared scribe on Louis' desk.  _ "She was my sister,"  _ he writes and hands it Louis.

It's slightly hysterical, the multiple expressions that pass visibly through Louis' face. From shock to confusion to bewilderment to shock again, but he finally schools his features into his default setting - smug and slightly teasing.

"That is really hard to envision. I mean" - Louis waves his hand around Harry's face - "You two definitely have that in common. It's just your personalities, I don't know. She actually had life to her, unlike you."

What? Louis digs through assorted scribes before shoving one into Harry's chest. "But that does explain things, y'know. Like why they put you into the Proceed-With-Caution-Future-Superior-Lot. You should've seen your face when you walked in. It's like you died and went to Unconformist hell."

It says a lot about Harry's attention span to Louis when the only suitable reply he can come up with to the long spill is to ask  _ what even is a hell? _

Harry angles the scribe to his face and is actually surprised to see that Louis has drawn up plans for a hoverboard. It's not that he doubted that Louis would actually have the drive to actually put some thought into fixing Harry's board without being nagged into it. Louis just seems to be the type of bloke that only does something when it appears that it'd be benefiting him as well, not the kind of person that acts without an agenda. (Harry might've only thought all of this because Louis' an Unconformist, but who can blame him, really?)

"It's just a rough outline of what I plan to do," Louis' explaining about the diagram. "It'll be more elaborate as I continue tinkering with it. Sorry that I'm going so slowly with this. It's been pushed to the back burner, I've had a lot of more demanding projects on my mind, lately. Surely you understand."

Harry nods and hands the scribe back to Louis, but not before scrawling out a quick  _ "Thanks for all of this."  _ for Louis to see.

Louis nods and sits the scribe down, leading Harry out of the small work room and back towards the kitchen. Liam is standing there now, plating meals slowly. Harry is mildly shocked at the deep contrast between the two set plates. One of the meals has a massive slab of meat on it and several vegetables. The other has rice. That's all. And Harry knows that the rice is starchy and not filling at all, seeing as that's the only plate that his meal plan has allowed him to have for the past month.

"Lou, it's getting cold again. Will you fix the internal control?" Liam projects without turning around.

"On it, Liam. Say bye to Harry. He's leaving." Louis leaves the room again. Harry pivots in the middle of the kitchen until Liam turns around with a calm smile pasted on his face.

He looks mildly better than earlier, still a little rough around the edges, but more put together under his purposeful facade.

"Bye, Harry. Lovely seeing you again. Stop by anytime."

Harry waves his adieu and high tails it out of the flat. He feels like such an intruder in there, like he's infringing in a whole entire different plane of the universe. It's hard to believe that he literally lives less than three meters away from them but they live in a niche that is so unlike his own. It's like their lives are endless with layers and complications with Liam and Louis' love overriding all of the entanglements of secrets. And Harry just.... lives. He doesn't have secrets hidden under his floorboards. He has a cat. That he tells everything to. Which might be classified as pathetic compared to the lives of his neighbors. He feels an odd mixture of jealousy and relief all because of it.

//

Later, when Harry's tangled in his own blankets with Dusty snoring lightly at his side, he can hear the distant sound of metal clanking on the other side of the wall. He's always wondered what that sound was sometimes, when he couldn't sleep because his skin felt too tight on his bones, and now he knows. It's Louis making things for The Movement. Or maybe not for The Movement. What if the inventions Louis makes are all obscure ways to slowly lead to The Movement's downfall? What if the Unconformists actually prevail with the help of Louis' mechanics that are so excelled that The Movement wants to have Louis on their side.

He's hesitant, that's what it is. He's confused. He still can't comprehend how someone can be against The Movement but also be willing to work for it. Louis doesn't make sense. But it's not Louis that he's confused about - Louis is an entirely different person whose life barely meshes with his own. If Harry was being completely honest, in the dead of the night with an empty flat that has no witnesses to the fragile truth, he can say that he's scared of himself.

He doesn't understand why The Movement sees him as disloyal. He has done everything to be loyal to them. The Movement has screwed him over, sure, but it was all in the sake for the greater good. Which makes it okay, right? It's like. He's on a constant up-and-down whirlwind. There's a call and response symphony saying that he deserves to be treated better than he is and that he doesn't deserve it. Louis acted like he's been grouped this way because of who Gemma is - was. But there's the one complication where Harry is decidedly not Gemma. He is his own person. Right? So why punish him? Why does The Movement even need him like how Sir said they do?

Nothing makes sense: it's all a cluster fuck of how's and why's and Harry can't handle it. Harry needs it all to just stop for a second so he can try and make sense of something, anything.

Harry turns over in his blankets and stares blankly at the monotonous wall that's showing a projection of the night sky. I don't know where I belong, he realizes, and that - of all things - gives him enough semblance to allow him to fall asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Niall Horan's flat is monstrous, practically a cavern. But somehow he manages to make it feel... real. With the -surprisingly- warm colours and the overuse of digital fireplaces in nearly every room besides the loo. Harry shifts on the obscenely plush sofa and politely denies the tea that Niall is trying to shove into his hands.

"Meal plan denying you it, then?" Niall asks in understanding after he quits wheedling Harry, Harry nods and Niall easily nods along with him. "Right, then. I forget, sometimes. At least take a biscuit, yeah? You're too thin."

Niall's inquiring eyes are too big and too blue to say no to, and the biscuit is actually good, so it's worth it, even though he feels bad for some reason. Niall hums happily when Harry polishes off the biscuit and shoves a second one onto his plate. Harry eats this one slower, now, turning towards the telly just in time to see the announcer moving his hands exuberantly as a projection of crudely dressed Unconformists pops over his shoulder.

"Don't know how I feel about them," Niall murmurs quietly, tilting his head towards the telly.

_ You hate them, _ Harry wants to supply, but he doesn't feel like using his words today. It's kind of exhilarating, really, to make it so late in the day without using any words yet. It makes him feel powerful and like he can shout into the wind and not worry because he still has three words left.

"I mean, they're not all that bad. Can be quite a riot, some of them." Niall clears his throat easily, he doesn't even look scared to say this, is the thing. "I wouldn't ever want to do what they do, of course. I don't see how they could hate something so bad when all The Movement is doing is helping us avoid certain disaster."

Harry shrugs. He doesn't really understand why they reject it, either. Because The Movement's rules have actually worked for hundreds of years. No wars. No epidemics. No utter destruction. Seriously, what more can anyone ask for? The Movement has taken all of the precautions for history to not repeat itself, but the Unconformists are still unhappy, for some reason.

"They're growing in numbers, they're multiplying and trying to convert regular people to join their forces," the announcer stresses. "Nobody - not any child, any adult, any mate - is safe from the brainwashing ways of the Unconformists. They lure people in with false promises, but what do they really have? The Unconformists can only promise a few things to you and actually follow through with it: loss of decorum and certain punishment."

Niall makes a light humming sound in the back of his throat, "He actually sounds scared of them." He explains to Harry's inquisitive glance.

He's right. The announcer did seem scared, slightly frantic and extremely emotional. It's scaring Harry, himself, what if the Unconformists have more power than they know of? They obviously have people who are skilled and untouchable on their side. They have Louis, who can invent objects so that people can communicate without limits. He could probably make something harmful, too. And The Movement is doing nothing to stop him beside giving him more power. He just doesn't understand anything anymore.

"Harry?" Niall asks. "You look poorly all of a sudden, is everything alright?"

No, nothing is alright. Everything is wrong and terrifying and he just wishes he was young and clueless again. Harry presses his palms into his eyes and leans over. He's just so bloody confused and upset and he has no idea why. He wishes he was Gemma; the type of person that can be handed all of this information and actually be able to make sense of it and form an opinion over it. But he's not. He's just a confused idiot.

"Breathe," Niall's hand is warm and heavy on his back all of the sudden, pressing down and rubbing hesitantly. "Are you afraid? Of the Unconformists? You do know that they can't hurt you, right? The Movement is protecting us from their idealistic ways. They're just a bunch of radicals that are spewing shite because they're never satisfied, that's it."

But they can, the Unconformists are literally all around them. Hiding in the shadows under carefully catered facades. And people, great people like Liam, are standing beside them not even knowing that they love someone that is trying to take away their safety.

"Home." Harry breathes after a while, standing quickly and not glancing back at Niall.

He just needs to get out of here. To go somewhere that he can do mindless things and act like he still leaves in a bubble that Unconformists can't breach. After all, what else is he supposed to -

//

Harry wakes up in his own bed, presumably after fainting like an idiot.

Dusty is perched on his waist and there's a long tube sticking out of his arm, connected to a large machine that's releasing annoying beeping sounds every few seconds. It's unnecessary, really. He was just overwhelmed, there's no need for all of this medical attention. Harry grasps at the tubing that's lodged in his arm, trying to muster up the courage to yank it out so that he can actually get up and walk to his kitchen to get a glass of water.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a disembodied voice warns, Harry startles enough to let go of the tubing and wake up Dusty. "Infection risk, and all that. I'm just the vitals tracker, not an actual Medical Superior."

Seated in Harry's wooden rocking chair nestled in the corner of his room, is Liam, with his bulging biceps threatening to break out of an overly-tight button down and a dopey smile stretched across his features, causing days old scruff to branch out.

"You gave me quite a scare for a bit - your heart rate was off the charts, as was your brain frequency. You're lucky that Niall is my friend, or else I wouldn't have been able to ensure your safety."

"What?" Harry asks lamely, plopping his head back down on the pillow.

"You had a panic attack at Niall Horan's home after you both watched an airing on the telly about Unconformists," Liam explains slowly. "You were on my radar today - my occupation is a vitals tracker, if I haven't told you that already - and I saw your vitals going crazy, so I alerted Niall and he helped me come take you here. Actually, I should probably alert him that you're up. He's quite fond of you, you know."

Liam is giving Harry an actual headache. Harrys almost glad that Liam can't use actual words, because if he could actually speak he'd probably suck all of the oxygen right out of the room.

"I used my emergency kit on you, but if you feel that you need actual medical attention, I can get one of my friends out here to check on you."

Harry shakes his head, trying to radiate the message that he's fine, really. His head hurts like a bitch and it's mildly embarrassing that Liam always finds him when he's at his weakest state. Dusty mewls absently at his side, twining her long tail against his arm before jumping off the bed and nimbly moving across Harry's floorboards to rest at Liam's feet.

"Are you sure?" Liam scoops Dusty up, raising a brow in Harry's direction before making small clicking sounds at her. "Niall told me that he had something to give you, which is what I'm guessing is the reason you were even at his flat in the first place. You're quite lucky, really, that Niall's orchestrating your Obstacles."

Harry groans, unbidden. He forgot. His Obstacles start tomorrow. The Obstacles are the rounds of tests that a hopeful Superior has to endure just to know how high of a position they can receive as a Superior, or if someone is really fit to be a Superior at all. Niall is supposed to be Harry's mentor for it, carting him from place to place but he's also not supposed to give Harry any advice. All of Harry's actions during the Obstacles are supposed to be on his own accord, no outside forces affecting his own mentality. It's all so terrifying that he just wants to hide under his bed for years and only come out to feed Dusty and visit his Mum sometimes.

"Oh. Is that why you passed out? You're stressed over your Obstacles?"

That's only partially the reason why, if Harry's completely honest. Another benefactor is the Unconformists. He's afraid if they're really multiplying in numbers like how the announcer said, if everywhere he turns he's looking into the eye of someone that wants to throw the entire society into hysteria. He's afraid that everyone that he trusts is really hiding another life away from him. He's so bloody terrified of being like Liam - cluelessly but wholeheartedly trusting someone that doesn't really deserve it.

Liam takes one of Harry's hands in his own. "You'll be fine, Harry. You're a great citizen, from what I can see. You'll get a high Superior position, I'm sure."

Harry nods weakly, manipulating his features into a wane smile. How can he not smile at Liam? He's the embodiment of a small, excitable puppy. Even in a world so grey, Liam still manages to walk through it with a pocketful of warm, optimistic sunlight.

Liam moves his hand to the tube in Harry's arm, pressing the pad of his finger down on some button and expertly retracting the long needle from his skin. It stings, slightly, but it's nothing that he can't handle.

"Up you get, then. You need to eat something. You're all skin and bones."

Harry follows after Liam on heavy feet, vertigo niggling at the edges of his mind. He feels like a stranger in his own flat. How did Liam even get them both in here in the first place? Liam glances at Harry meaningfully until he presses his hand to the scanner. The screen blares to life, showing various bar graphs and charts that he'll never be able to make sense of. He taps the screen three times before it changes, now reading: Sustenance needed. Rice and water extraction starts - now. Harry moves to the small capsule off to the side of the kitchen, readily taking the sloppy rice and sweating glass of water and turning to face Liam, who is frowning down at his meal.

"Is that really all that they're giving you?" Harry shrugs and moves to his living room, Liam falling quickly behind him. "Then it's no wonder why you're so weak. That's not nearly enough food for someone of your height. Have you reported this yet?"

Harry shrugs, again. He doesn't really want to complain. The Movement gives people their meal plans based off what would ideally make them function at their best mentally and physically. All that a report would do is make him look even more like an unfaithful citizen. Which is not what he needs right now, according to Sir.

They've talked it over, him and Sir, about how he doesn't really seem to be of the same caliber as the 'jaded citizens' that's he's been grouped with for training. Sir seems to have had a soft spot for him, seeing as he actually gave Harry the keen advice of, "You best not step out of line, mate, even though you seem to be just fine to me. The Movement has a reason to watch you, and you don't want to give them another one."

"Do you mind if I stay for a while?" Liam asks sheepishly from where he's standing off to the corner of the room, still clutching Dusty in one hand while worrying his bottom lip.

Harry hesitates before nodding - Doesn't Liam have a way more exciting life just next door? With a mate who adores him and all? - patting the seat beside him, which Liam quickly shuffles over to.

"Cheers," Liam smiles dopily at Harry before nestling deeper into the sofa. "Is it ever lonely here? Without a mate? I've always wondered."

Harry shoves another spoonful of rice into his mouth and nods.

"I just can't imagine a life like that. No one to come home to." Liam laughs self-deprecatingly. "It's bad enough when Lou is out on his business trips, like how he is right now. He goes out for weeks sometimes, and I don't get word back from him. I'm not too sure what he does while he's off like that, but I do know that I miss him a lot."

Harry nods absently. He doesn't know who he feels more pity for: Liam or himself. Harry has no mate at all, and Liam doesn't even really know his own mate, from what Harry can decipher.

"Sorry, this is really rude of myself. I went from actually trying to be your friend to whining about my own life."

Harry smiles at him, a silent, "You're all right." before turning to the control pad for the telly.

The same downtrodden announcer with a dazzling smile is sitting behind a massive desk as soon as the screen comes to life. But there's something off about him. His eyes are sunken and his lips are pulled into a tight line. His hair is disheveled and as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, his fingers are trembling.

"We will now take you live to Pod R," he breathes fearfully.

"What?" Liam jolts forward on the couch. "What is this? Turn it up, please, Harry."

Harry obliges shakily. The broadcast's usual air of being clinical and informational has been replaced with this feeling of fear and chaos that's evident just from the washed out colours and the banners flying across the bottom of the screen.

The footage pans to an aerial view of a pod, obviously, with its controlled circles working within one massive circle with foliage peeking out between each circle. It seems to be set up just the same as his pod: living quarters blocked away from working stations and high rise buildings placed clinically throughout the pod. It exudes the same aura of order that Harry's own pod, and - Harry predicts - every other pod does as well. It's all like the gears within a clock, in some way, as Harry learned years ago in school. If one gear stops functioning: so does all of the others.

There's only one slight - major - difference between this pod and all of the other ones that Harry's seen photos of.

"Oh my-" Liam clenches a clammy hand around Harry's own. "That's not - It can't -"

Bodies. The camera slowly zooms in on them. At first they were just massive dots along the sidewalks of the pod, but as the pixels clear it's evident. People. Everywhere. What. Harry turns his hand and digs his nails into Liam's skin on autopilot. There are bodies strewn about the sidewalks of the pod. And they're all just.. laying there. There's no rise and fall of any one's chest, there isn't anybody twitching or walking around. They're all just lying there, lifeless. Men, women, young girls and boys, children, babies, and Superiors, even, are littering the - what Harry assumes to be usually spotless - streets.

"You are now witnessing Pod R, where over seventy-five percent of the entire pods population has been killed, ruthlessly." The announcer monotones and Harry's heart drops into his stomach. No. They can't - killing isn't even a thing anymore. The last recorded murder was over a hundred years ago. It's just - No. Seventy-five percent? That's thousands of people dead. How? How could The Movement let this happen?

"The Movement assumes that this was a covert attack pulled off by Unconformists that somehow wheedled their way into finding a way to poison all of these people. It has been reported that all of the survivors of this attack, are, in fact, Unconformists. The Movement will deal with them as they see fit." The camera moves to a closer view of the dead bodies' faces. They're all contorted in pain, even the young children and Superiors. Harry might be sick. "This is a mass murder, the kind of disgusting action that has been but an urban legend for as long as The Movement has held authority. The Unconformists are attempting to shift power. Is this the kind of world you'd like to live in? One where humans are used as pawns to make a point? The Unconformists cannot be trusted, and The Movement has made preparations to secure everyone's safety and bring The Unconformists down. The innocent people of Pod R shall be avenged. If you suspect that someone you know is one of the lower, undignified Unconformists, please send in a report to your nearest Superior."

It's radio silence after that, only the hum of tech and the shallow beating of his own heart are the sounds reverberating in his own ears. He's torn, he doesn't know if he wants to turn the telly off and resolutely decide that this did not happen or to turn up the volume and listen for more information. He chooses the former. As soon as the telly screen turns blank, Liam lets go of Harry's hand and stands, twisting his large hands into his short hair.

"I hate them!"Liam seethes, his cheeks turning angry with rouge. "How can they just kill people like that? What's the point in hurting innocent people? They've done nothing to hurt the bloody Unconformists so why did they have to die? What was this supposed to be? A statement? If anything it just drives the point home that Unconformists are bad and can't be trusted."

_ You're mated to one _ , Harry wants to say, but he doesn't have the words. But he will. One day he will tell Liam that he's in love with a bloody Unconformist that hurts people and is an overall prat that deserves to be lying on that sidewalk, dead, just like how all of those undeserving people in Pod R were. How can anyone support them? How could they have roped Gemma into being one of them? Gemma would never hurt anybody. The Unconformists hurt her by brainwashing her into actually thinking that The Movement is anything but a life saver.

Harry doesn't even realize that he's crying until a stray teardrop falls off his face and onto his palm. They killed innocent people, and that's never okay.

He feels like the entire world has been swept from beneath his feet. The one thing that he's most familiar with - security - has just been snatched away from them. Niall was wrong, the Unconformists can hurt him, they can hurt anybody, and they obviously have no qualms with it either. He's always felt so safe in this world, and now he doesn't. They can creep into his life and kill him at any time, just to try and prove a point. He's bloody terrified and disgusted and -

And it's all just too much for him to handle. Harry curls into himself on the couch, laying on his side. They hurt people. What kind of world is this? Do they not have compassion? He feels like he's lost in a toiling ocean, struggling to breathe over the whipping waves that hit him with such a force that it blinds him momentarily.

"Louis." Liam breaks the lilted silence hysterically. "He told me he was going to another pod - What if? What if they killed him, too? Harry, turn it back on. I have to look for Louis. I - I have to look for Louis."

Harry turns the telly back on. They're not showing the faces of the dead anymore. Instead, they are zooming in on the announcer as he hurriedly reads a report off of a scribe.

"The cause of death appears to be from an unknown piece of technology. The device emitted a sound so high pitched and powerful that it at first caused all of the victims to lose the ability to hear, and then it caused the inner workings of their minds to go haywire and collapse on itself. This means that the brain ceases function, and with that, the victims body systems shut down, which leads to their death."

The realization hits Harry as hard as a rock. Everything adds up too perfectly for it to not be true. Louis has been gone from the flat for the past few days, at least. Louis is extremely deft with technology and invents mechanics that people from The Movement could never envision. The mass murder in Pod R was caused by tech. Louis made the murder weapon, he is the reason why all of those people died. That has to be it.

//

Harry is still awake, hours later while the moon is sinking beneath the trees and Liam - who didn't want to be alone tonight, and honestly, neither did Harry - is fast asleep on the couch, with Dusty wrapped around his ankles. The telly has turned itself off hours ago. The darkness of the room has enveloped Harry like a cloak, and he actually feels okay like this. Hidden in the depths of the shadows, feeling surrounded by all of the things he knows. Too many things have been changing around him, lately, but the articles of his flat are something that he knows like the back of his hand or the moods of Dusty.

There's a hollow knock on the door, pulling him out of his reverie. Harry paces across the floor quickly and yanks it open to see the one face that he'd really rather not at this time of day - or any time of day, really - smiling meekly up at him, hand outstretched with his hover board in it. Harry takes the hoverboard quickly and places it on the entryway table.

"No thank you, then? I thought you were more polite than that."

Harry's a pretty calm man, he never really lashes, and when he's at his most emotional state , he either cries or faints. But the numbing anger fuels him so much that his muscles move unbidden forward. He's just so mad and he knows that no one will ever truly give him the punishment deserves. 

So Harry clenches his fist and brings it down to Louis' jaw with a resounding, satisfying  _ thwack. _ And he doesn't stop there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments make me happy! hmu on [tumblr](http://voguelourry.tumblr.com)


	9. Chapter 9

**_LOUIS' POV_ **

"No way in hell did Harry Styles do that," Zayn scoffs and digs his finger into the massive bruise on Louis' jaw. Louis huffs and bats his hand away. "That kid is harmless, he even gave me cow eyes for hours just because I swatted at a fly, once."

"Well, he can, because he did. Can you just shut your gob so that we won't get caught?" Louis is resolutely not blushing as he pokes his head out of the old tube's window, trying to catch glimpse of the any security crafts that might not have been accounted for on the blueprints.

"You actually let someone hit you?" Zayn asks once he sits back down, because he obviously doesn't know when he's ran a topic of conversation to death.

"He had the element of surprise, alright?"

So what if Curly can actually pack a punch. And a kick. And Harry also might've scratched him a few times, as well, while Louis did not get one swipe in. Mostly because he has compassion and he can't fight back against someone that is crying while throwing punches. Also, he really did surprise Louis. He only planned on dropping off the refurbished hover board to the kid, not on having his face bashed in instead of an actual thank you or summat. And as soon as Harry was done, he just shut the door in his face - no explanation. Who in the hell does that?

"Maybe we were wrong."

Louis eyes Zayn warily, ignoring him and deciding to get his scribe out instead. Changing the frequencies so that The Movement won't pick up his activity. The satellite says that there's not any other foreign crafts around, but they can always be in ghost mode. So far, though, they're safe. There's a chance they'll get through unscathed this time. (Unlikely possibility, but hopefully they can.) Louis presses his forehead to the rusty, depleted shell of the tube, the clank of the wheels smacking over the aged tracks playing a soft melody that's he's came to accustom to home and escape. His scribe is still showing a blank radar, but there's never a such thing as being too careful. He sticks his head out of the window again, letting the air whip at his cheeks haphazardly, still no lights that would be pasted to the bottom of a hovercraft.

He settles back into to the cracked upholstery of the chair only to be met by Zayn's large, imploring eyes. One of his censors is sliding slowly down his temple and his silencer looks irritated around the edges from where Louis tried - and failed - to help him remove it. Louis reaches up and fixes it wordlessly, and Zayn nods in thanks.

"You never answered me," Zayn reminds. "Do you think that we were wrong? That he could actually do it?"

"No, we were right." Louis shakes out his hair and breaks eye contact with Zayn. "You said it yourself, kid's harmless."

"He obviously isn't if he could do that." Zayn divots his thumb into Louis' bruise again. "Gemma wouldn't have said that he could do it if she didn't fully believe it."

"Well, there's a difference between his sister recruiting him and us. Obviously he isn't our number one fan, even though I have no idea what I did to deserve the shiner."

Louis waits for the infamous question, the one that he can never answer because he doesn't have an answer. Where's Gemma? Everyone always asks him that. But the only answer he has, the one that he truly doesn't want to give, is: Dead, probably, but that stings too much to admit to himself, let alone to anyone else.

"Then find Gemma. If anyone can do it, it's you. You have people on both sides, it should be easy for you to do that. Then we can have both of the Styles. The Movement wouldn't know what to do with itself."

"It's not that simple." Louis toys with his wristband, not wanting to look Zayn in the eyes. It's really not simple. He has already talked to his people on both sides, wheedling enough tech to them that he's pretty sure he gave one of the old, fat men in a suit an orgasm. But for nothing. There was no word on Gemma, on where she was sent off to or even who took her. Louis spent a solid two years trying to locate her, not only because she was so vital to the Unconformists, but also because her - along with Zayn - were his best mates, the only people he could wholeheartedly trust. He gave up the search, though. Because he came to the realization that he was looking for Gemma, and she is anything but a surrenderer. If she wanted to be found, to come back to them, then she would have by now. Gemma would've found a way if she was able to. And, as much as it hurts to know this, Gemma has to be really gone to have not resurfaced by now.

"You really don't think that he can do it?" Zayn pipes up again just as the low specks of the outbound's city lights come to life in a muted ember colour. "I mean, he obviously isn't that loyal. He didn't even turn me in when I manipulated my words right to his face."

"Or maybe he didn't turn you in because you look like an Adonis and it's kind of terrifying to even think about selling you out."

"Shut up, Lou. All I'm saying is that you know that Gemma was already preparing him for the recruit before she left. Maybe it actually worked more than we thought."

Maybe it did. Gemma had worked obscenely hard at gathering information to sway Harry. She attended countless Truth Talks that she'd drag them to, forcing all of them to take notes so that she could subtly show Harry that what The Movement is doing is unfair. And from what she told them, it had been working. Maybe they can recruit Harry. It'd take a lot of work, a lot of time that Louis honestly doesn't have, but they need him. Or his genetics, at least.

"It'd take a lot of work, but we could probably do it." Louis concedes. "Now, will you stop blathering about someone with curls and actually focus. We have to get all of the supplies in without being mobbed, and I'd like to have a partner in crime that isn't thinking about things that I can't change."

Zayn scoffs and jostles Louis' shoulder before standing. "You can't fool me, Tommo. That arsehole persona can only help you for so long."

"Shut up," Louis mumbles fondly, fastening his harness to the tube's shell and walking to the cockpit. The supplies will take at least a few trips just to get it to HQ, and it'd be best if they didn't run into anyone while bringing them in. The Unconformists like to check all of the supplies they bring before they're administered. Always wary of another poisoning thanks to the always tactful Movement.

Louis and Zayn spend hours lugging massive boxes laden with food, water, and tech that he made himself to the Head Distributer, Paul. It's hard work but it's work that they need to do. Paul actually laughs at Louis' face as soon as he barges into his office.

"How'd you get that, lad? Your mate not treating you well?" Paul asks, spitting the word 'mate' like its rancid.

Louis rolls his eyes jovially dropping a box and nodding for Zayn to go back and get another load.

"Liam's great, actually, thanks."

"I'm sure he is great. And loyal to The Movement, still, I suppose?" Paul sighs at Louis' silence. "Lou, you're just playing into their hands if you keep this up. Either recruit him of rid yourself of him."

Louis fights the urge to rip the thought censors - the ones that Louis made for a great number of The Unconformists - off of Paul's head just so that he won't have to listen to him anymore. Louis knows what he should do, but he doesn't want to do it. He doesn't want to rid himself of Liam, but he also knows that Liam is someone that would never look at him the same f he knew how much Louis was hiding from him. Liam is loyal to The Movement, through and through. His first thought when Louis had shown him the thought censors was for him to immediately give the blueprints to The Movement. Louis had to lie, of course, and told Liam that they were just prototypes. That he's only made two this far. When really he's already carted off hundreds to the Unconformists.

"Louis," Paul's brogue pulls him out of his reverie. "Are you going to leave Malik to do all of the work? I'd like to get the supplies in for inspection as quickly as possible."

Louis nods and turns out of Paul's office quickly. Zayn is seated on one of the boxes when he reaches their tube, smirking up at Louis when he he huffs at him and grabs a few boxes.

"Was Paul a prat again?"

"What gave you that idea? All of the other times he was a prat?"

"He's only jealous because The Movement pampers you instead of threatening to kill you."

"It's because they've learned their lesson, Z, you know that."

The Movement has tried various tactics with Louis ever since he was little, giving him a lot of emotionally scarring black and white memories that will sting him forever. There's scars that they've left him, ones that he'll always harbor. But he never gave in to the torture. So now they've just settled for appeasing him, to try and make his life so great on The Movement's side that it'd make him forget the Unconformists. (It doesn't work, of course, Louis will never actually fall for it, but a lot of people spite him for it. He gets it, he does.)

He and Zayn finish the job quickly. Making their rounds to run-down homes of gritty Unconformists that they call family after they're done. They make small talk, network, and he feels like he's in his element, again. He's been out of sorts while spending the last week gathering supplies, and after his small fabrication with Harry during his brief stop home threw him even further into a slew of confusion and exhaustion.

"Why did he even punch you, anyways?" Zayn asks once they've sat back down in the tube, covered in a tacky sheen of sweat that sticks uncomfortably to the cracked interior.

"No idea, mate. I mean, all I've done is fix his hover board and asked him about Gemma. He's more of Liam's friend, if I'm honest."

"What'd you tell him about Gemma?"

"I just said that he wasn't like Gemma that much. That she had this lively energy, whereas he doesn't."

Zayn hums softly, kicking his feet up onto Louis' lap; his shoes are caked with dry dirt from the downtrodden paths throughout the Unconformists region.

"Maybe he wanted to prove you wrong. Show you that he's just as much of a badarse as Gems."

If that's what Harry wanted to do, then he definitely succeeded. Louis can't close his eyes without having the searing memory of those fiery green eyes staring down at him with such raw emotion, that unfiltered and all-encompassing hatred that Harry honed on him with punching Louis' face so hard that the metallic taste of his own blood flooded all of his senses. Harry looked so lively and frightening like Gemma, but it still looked off on his cherubic features. Like a little child wearing his father's clothes. It was raw but ill-fitting. Gemma would have punched Louis without regret, but Harry was obviously having turmoil after the first hit landed. They're alike, in some way, but also completely different. It didn't seem like Harry was trying to prove himself, it was more like he was acting out of vengeance towards Louis.

The tube comes to a halt, Louis glances out to see that the system shut them down outside of a pod that isn't their own. But Louis can see it, on the massive projections plastered about the pod's city. A small banner reading ' _ Unidentified tech kills entire Pod R'  _ while the blueprints of one of Louis' own tech inventions is being showcased as the offender.

"No." Louis says aloud as his stomach rolls and his mouth dries. "No."

They were supposed to just put it in a terror cell, to wave it around and use it in order to make people talk. They weren't - they weren't supposed to kill an entire pod of innocent people with it. Louis cradles his head between his legs and lets out a shaky breath. No no no no. It's his fault, it's his fault.

"Lou, that's not -"

Familiarity. Zayn is familiarity. Louis anchors himself to Zayn, turning into his chest and cradling his face in the divot of his neck. Zayn knows - Zayn knows Louis. He knows that he wouldn't do that. He knows that he would never mean to -

"Maybe he put it together," Zayn whispers over Louis' sharp intakes of breaths and tremors, rubbing soothingly at Louis' back. "Maybe he blames you."

"But it wasn't -"

"I know that you didn't plan for that, Lou. I'm just... That's the only conclusion I can draw as to why he would do it." Zayn pushes Louis further into his chest. He smells like smoke and also tacky with sweat. He smells like their childhood, of innocence and of knowing that they're not as bad of people as they seem. "He obviously knows that you're an Unconformist, seeing as he shocked you for it. And he knows that the Unconformists did this. And he knows you're adept at tech. He probably just..."

Wait, Louis' back stiffens. He turns in Zayn's arms and faces the screen again. Watching as the weathered, faux-looking man signals to the screen behind him, showing the dead bodies of Pod R that is being depicted.

"I didn't..." Louis digs his fingers into Zayn's arms. "I didn't give that tech to the Unconformists. I gave it to The Movement."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments make me smile! hmu on [tumblr](http://voguelourry.tumblr.com)


	10. Chapter 10

**_HARRY’S POV_ **

"Perfect." Harry's Mum breathes, adjusting his collar like he's something fragile. Something special.

Harry turns to look at her, her glassy green eyes worn in the edges but still so achingly trusting and familiar. He wants to wrap himself around her stomach like how he did when he was little. When he was afraid of hard rainfall or of the nightmares that came when Gemma and his Dad left. His Mum has always been there, always constant, with her knotted hair and her slightly crooked teeth. Her embrace is always warm and Harry just wants to delve into it forever. She's the only thing that hasn't changed in his life, the only thing that hasn't been taken away. He wishes that he could spend more time with her. He wishes that he could actually _talk_ to her. That he could tell her about his day and listen to her talk about her own.

His Mum hums underneath her breath, fiddling with his curls with shaky hands like _she's_ the one that's about to be evaluated. It's comforting, in a way. With his mum being so watchful over him and with Robin seated on their couch, watching the airing of all of the deceased in Pod R, a tribute to them that's lasted for the past few days. Harry would sit down and continue to watch it and probably cry a little more over all of those lost lives if he didn't have one of the biggest events occurring in his life today.

This could be it, if he performs well on his Obstacles then he won't be sighted as a flight risk anymore. He won't have to carry the burden of Gemma's rebellion over his shoulder. He'd just be seen as Harry: The Good Civilian. His stomach is moving in tucks and rolls, switching constantly from the thrum of excitement to the ache of nerves. He just wants to _do well_ . To have his Mum continue to smile at him like he's this source of pride for her, like he's the one thing that turned out well in her life, too. He wraps his arms around her waist quickly - he just feels so overwhelmed and lost and he doesn't know _why_. He wants to be liked, wants to have a place where he truly belongs, and this is his one and only shot.

The door knocks, Robin answers. Niall sweeps in, his white smile looking out of place when grouped with the starch white of his Superior kit. His Mum disentangles from their impromptu embrace and smiles courteously at Niall, a silent welcome that - if his polite eyebrow quirk is anything to go by - Niall recognizes easily.

"Hello, Mrs. Twist, you as well, Mr. Twist, have you been well?" Niall asks charismatically, like he's not uncomfortable with being in a foreign house filled with silence. His Mum nods, already charmed, and Robin offers up a polite grunt. "Alright, Harry?"

Harry nods, slowly drifting closer to the door, and Niall, by extension. He just wants to get this over with.

"I'm guessing that you're ready, then?" Niall asks jovially around a chuckle. Harry nods. "Great, well, we're off then. Lovely place you've got, Mrs. Twist, it was a pleasure."

"Bye, Mum." Harry trails after Niall, smiling when he hears her fond smile leaking from the front porch.

"Okay, so you're ready?" Niall asks as they head about the sidewalk. Harry nods. "That's great, you've got enough sleep, yeah? Don't need you nodding off during the standardized bit."

Harry nods again. People are flitting about over their heads on hover boards, weaving through the high-rised buildings, moving like they're just as much a part of nature as the tree limbs that are swaying easily with the breeze. It's a beautiful day, really, and they don't get those too often around here.

"I'm not going to tell you much, seeing as that's against the rules and you can't have any outer influence. But, be sure to keep your head on, alright? It's just a test, Harry, remember that. Anything that you do in it does not define you as a person."

 _Just a test_ , right. This is more than a test, it's the last chance he'll ever get to define his future. In all sincerity, it's the _only_ chance he's ever going to get,

seeing as even when he was assigned an occupation, he didn't get to try to show his true qualities. This is the one time that he can show the people at The Movement exactly who Harry Styles is. He will show them that he's loyal, that he hates the Unconformists, and that he's everything that they need. He's sure.

"Also, don't get angry. But that's just a general rule for all things Movement related. Anger is poison, and we don't do poison of any sort here." Niall grabs Harry's arm and leads him down a narrow alleyway, "You've got this, H. And I'll be in your ear the whole time. Like an overseer or summat."

With that, Niall presses his hand into a random white brick amidst all of the grey on one of the outter walls and reveals a small passage, he gently guides Harry into the building and shoots one last bright smile before the wall closes again, leaving Niall out in the alley and Harry in this odd secret passage.

" _Okay, Harry. Close that mouth of yours and proceed down the hall. Take the first turn left_ ." Niall's brogue comes a moment later, dragging Harry out of his stupor and hurtling towards the realization that Oh, yeah, the Obstacles are starting. " _We haven't got all day, Harry, sadly_."

Right. Harry takes one last moment to compose himself, fiddling with his hair and making sure that his collar isn't flipped out or anything odd like that. He's got this. He just needs to keep his cool. Be the person that he is. He can _do_ this. Hopefully.

The secret passage is surprisingly well-lit for it to be so hidden, with white-washed marble walls and metallic fixtures placed tastefully about. The hall seems to stretch forever, with a few other passages branching from the side. His shoes make a muted _clack_ against the floor, just loud enough for it to 

mute out the panicked thrumming of his own blood in his ears. He takes the first left and is met with another hallway similar to the one he was just in.

" _Alright, Harry, just keep going. I'll tell you when to turn_."

Harry doesn't even know where Niall's voice is coming from. The volume isn't distant, like he's yelling from afar or anything - it's actually decently loud. Almost as if Niall was talking in his ear. He could be using an intercom, maybe, but it's not really echoing in the abyss of the passage, and it's not like Niall ever really had the chance to plant an in-ear on Harry. It must be some sort of Movement tech, he reasons after a while, he really shouldn't even be thinking about it at all, really. He should be focusing on his Obstacles, which are going to occur really fucking soon.

" _Take a left_ ," Niall clips and Harry obeys. The hall is slightly dimmer in lighting, less impeccably clean.

This must be the way to HQ. Maybe the hours-long tube ride everyone has to take just to get assigned their occupation or their mate is all just a ruse and the HQ is actually just a nondescript building that no one would ever guess that that is where it is. Or maybe Harry's just spewing shit, which is an extremely high possibility. His Obstacles might not even be taking place at HQ.

" _Go right_."

The halls get progressively darker and more ragged. There's an unknown source that's leaking after his twelfth turn and the odd _zap_ of an overhead light shorting out every so often. It's getting progressively terrifying, but Niall's voice is a compass of some sort, telling him when to turn in a cheery manner and occasionally checking in with a ' _How're you feeling, Harry? You can see everything alright_?' making him feel not as alone as he probably would with anyone else.

The lights have gone away completely and Harry has stepped into an odd, sloshing puddle once too many now. There's a random flare of light every so often, signaling a place to turn, but that's all that Harry can go by just to assure that he's not going to walk face-first into a wall. He just wants for this walk to be _over_ and for his Obstacles to start just so that he can get it done with.

" _Take a right. Open the door_." Niall instructs and Harry turns, hands outstretched to hit the familiar steel of a door. He slides his hands around until he reaches a scanner, causing it to flare to life and emanate a pale, blue light. The grids flash over his palm and the door protests weakly as it swings open.

The room is so bright with fluorescents that it makes him cringe. Everything is white of course, orderly and strangely subdued, in a way, the way that everything has felt slightly off ever since the attack on Pod R. Superiors are milling about silently, holding scribes and nodding at each other with their lips drawn into tight smiles. He feels like he's just stumbled into another world, one where he might be able to fall into if everything goes alright today. All he has to do is focus.

"Harry," a hand comes down on his shoulder and he turns to see his old Superior, smiling at him. "You're taking your Obstacles today, right."

Harry nods, mouth inexplicably dry.

"That's great, Harry, always knew that you'd turn out right." She says, her usually reserved eyes gleaming. She hasn't came around for quite a while, but Harry actually feels _relieved_ that he made her proud, because she was around in his darkest days, always pushing him onto the right path even when he was drowning. In a way, he wouldn't be here without her. "Well, with the pleasantries out of the way, let's get started, yes?" Harry nods. "Alright, follow me."

Her hair is still in a tight bun as always, and she still holds herself high like she has detailed every movement that she'll make in advance. The room she guides him into requires for her to punch in an extensive code and also for her eye to be scanned. It's actually pretty sparse on the inside, with one lone table and a steel chair slid underneath it. There's a massive window off to one side, much like the one that Niall has in his office, but this window displays nothing but greenery and a small lake, oddly serene and _free_ for it to be right outside such an orderly and prestigious building.

His Superior pulls out the chair for him and puts her palm flat against the face of the table. The table transforms to where it looks like a glass computer screen, with multiple bar graphs and circles pulsing with it, waiting for action to be taken. It's so complex and foreign that Harry has no idea what any of it even means. The Superior swipes across the screen and it simplifies somewhat, narrowing down to just a couple brief sentences and a few more sentences following after it. Like the standards that he had to take when he was still little and had to take tests over the words that he had to learn.

"You can sit down now, Harry. You'll be taking your standards on this. Someone will retrieve you when you are finished. Good luck, Mr. Styles."

Harry settles into the surprisingly comfortable chair and glances up at her, ruffling his hair nervously. She spares one last encouraging nod before leaving the room via an automatic door.

Okay, so it's starting, then. He can - he's _built_ for this. The Movement wouldn't recruit him unless they thought that he was Superior- material. Harry takes one last shuttering breath, expanding his lungs before letting it out and drifting his eyes down to the tech before him. Alright.

The first question is simple enough - _when did The Movement take power_ \- and the questions following were easy, as well - _what has The Movement done to ensure peace throughout the world_ \- but they get less technical and more... opinionated and personal as Harry continues sliding his hand across the table tech. Questions like _Would you incarcerate your own family member? ; Do you stand by every action that The Movement has done? ;_ and _Do you believe that Unconformists deserve harsher punishment for their actions_? The answers are yes, no, and undecided (which requires an explanation as to why if chosen), and Harry might've chosen the undecided option on the last one if he didn't know how They killed everyone in Pod R, if he hadn't looked into they eyes of an Unconformist and saw how selfish they can be, how shameless they can act after knowing that they contributed to the deaths of thousands of people. So the answer is yes, of course. He's not even sorry for electrocuting Louis bloody Tomlinson now. He deserved it. He could have been planning to kill Pod R for years in advance with his tech - he could be planning to kill Harry's pod right now. And The Movement will let him get away with it because he's a sodding idiot that plays both sides just to get what he wants, Harry thinks spitefully. Bugger Louis a Tomlinson, seriously.

Harry sighs and continues, flying through the rest of the standards, he doesn't know if it's the stress or the nerves or the all encompassing fear that's been swallowing him ever since the Pod R debacle, but he feels oddly numb as he takes it. Like his head isn't really there, perhaps parts and pieces of him are floating above him, watching but not really being alert. He doesn't know what it is, but he feels lost and safe all at once.

As soon as he finishes, his Superior is breezing through the door, looking sated and optimistic. He doesn't know why, but he used to look at her with a sense of fear and a type of hatred, but now she's just a sepia-tinged fixture of his past. An integral part of what made him grow into his own bones.

"Alright?" she asks, he nods. "Great. I'll take you to Mr. Horan, then."

She leads him down winding hallways until they reach a white washed room with Superior suits hanging across the walls along with face masks and giant silver bins and massive projection maps of different Pods. Sitting on a perfectly white meeting table that's shrouded with empty white leather chairs is Niall, whose Superior issued boots are scraping against the pristine floor merrily as he chats to a slight Superior that's smiling at him like he holds the sun in his pocket. His eyes shoot up and meet Harry's and his smile transforms from full-on charm to a soft form encouragement.

"Nice speaking again, innit Babs?" Niall tells the girl before tilting his head towards Harry and jumping off the table. "So you're finished?"

"He's ready for his next portion." His Superior says, all business.

"Of course he is, thanks again, mate." He dismisses her and then swings a casual arm around Harry's shoulder. "So how's it going? You feel confident?"

"Yeah." Harry says aloud, voice caked with nerves, Niall snorts.

"Alright, so you're going to suit up, and then Bressie over there is going to debrief you." He jabs his thumb over to the corner where a man clad in all white is clipping injectors and silencers onto his built, mouth drawn tight. "Remember what I said earlier, yeah?"

Niall's eyes are imploring, trying to radiate meaning without saying anything outright. Harry hurriedly racks his brain, thinking of what Niall could've possibly said that was so important. Besides to - _keep your head on_ , right, of course. The Movement is going to push him, they have to, to make sure that he's loyal and all that. To make sure that he's actually sane and won't go power-crazy.

Harry nods, finally, and Niall detaches his arm from Harry with one final slap against his back and an encouraging grin.

"I'll be with you every step of the way, mate." Niall bids before pushing Harry over to the man that he pointed out earlier.

The man grunts a greeting to Harry and shoves a Superior uniform in his hands. He doesn't - maybe the man's confused? Harry isn't supposed to _be_ a Superior yet, he's just testing to be one.

"Don't stand around, mate. Suit up." Harry nods nervously and begins to unbutton his shirt, only to be stopped by Bressie's massive hand on his chest. "Not _here_ , mate. There's a changing screen right over there."

"Oh," Harry uses his last word of the day, his cheeks filling with red. He's already made a prat of himself, then. He moves to the changing screen, which appears to only be glass until he steps behind it and then the material of it turns grey, blocking him from seeing out and - hopefully - others from seeing in.

He doesn't know why, but he thought that when he would put on the Superior suit he would automatically feel more _powerful_ , more authoritative and a little less lost. That doesn't really happen. He still feels like Harry, nothing more and nothing less. But maybe that's the point, he won't ever be Harry The Superior until he actually deserves it, until he is trained and conditioned and has earned the mentality that comes with the kit. He folds his regular clothes and slides them into a cubby before going back to Bressie, who is now waiting patiently for him with a slightly less terrifying demeanor.

"Alright?" he asks. "Give me your wrist. The one with the _counter_ , mate , c'mon, we have three other men waiting on us."

Harry thrusts his wrist into Bressie's slablike hand, his 00 standing out starkly against the paleness of his skin and the sleek grey of his counter. Bressie shoves the end of Harry's uniform over the counter, buttoning the cufflinks tightly to hide it from sight. It makes him feel even more like a Superior now, in a way, just because the counter isn't glaring at him like the nuisance it is, reminding him how much he has left to say.

"Don't let your sleeve slide up at all, you have a cover to maintain." Bressie advises. "Alright, the face mask. Make sure that it's fully over your entire face and your head. Never, under any circumstances, remove the face mask until i explicitly give the all clear. Do not make any sounds while we are on our assignment and do not try to dote on anyone. If you disobey these orders on any level, you will be facing severe charges from the higher-ups of The Movement. I am not bluffing."

Harry swallows nervously through his confusion, adjusting the heavy face mask that Bressie slid over his head and taking in a deep breath. Is nobody seriously going to tell him what's about to happen?

"Alright, kid. Lets go check in with the others and then we'll be ready." Bressie turns on his massive boot and moves briskly towards a group of three other burly men that are wearing face masks as well. Harry stumbles after him.

They traverse down even _more_ hallways with both of their Superior issued boots clomping against the floor and reverberating in his own head. Bressie pauses outside of a glass door and gives Harry what is probably meant to be an encouraging smile.

Bressie pauses before opening the door. "They'll probably remind you, but it won't hurt for me to say it again: do _not_ make a single sound or move your face mask throughout this entire assignment." He watches Harry for a second, probably looking for disobedience, and doesn't seem to find anything untrustworthy if the way he sighs and slides the door open is to go by.

In the small office, there are three broad-chested men donning the complete Superior kits (including clipped on injectors and face masks) standing beside an ominous looking sleek and silver door equipped with complicated tech screens on either sides of it.

"Alright, Bressie?" One of them asks just as another grunts out, "So this is the hopeful, then?"

"Yeah, this is Harry Styles. He doesn't have the greatest credentials from The Movement but Horan seems pretty chuffed with him, so." Bressie shrugs while talking about Harry like he's not even there, all while dragging Harry across the small room towards the group and the machine. "Not very talkative, which is good. I figured you can give him a simple run down, yeah, Ant?"

"Alright." The most lithe one nods and claps his gloved hands together. "So - Harry, is it? - what we have right here is the _Mod X_. It's basic function is to allow us to go to different periods of time so that we can change or relive certain events. Or we might not have the orders to change anything at all, we might just want to take more extensive notes to study a past event -"

"Get to the point, Ant." The one that's remained silent the whole time interjects.

"-Right, sorry. Anyways, we will be going back in time so that you can participate with us in something that's already occurred years ago. I'm sure Bressie has already told you the rules: no removing your face mask and zero social interaction with anyone unless one of us four or your handler gives you a direct order. Does that sound fine?"

Harry nods, watching his head bob in the mirrored reflection of Ant's face mask.

"That's great. Does he have any defects?"

"No," Bressie answers automatically. "Horan says that he should be perfectly fine with this. But he does have the Civilian Curfew, so we better get moving."

Ant nods and starts to swipe his hand expertly over the wall tech and one of the others opens the door. Bressie and the other unnamed Superior herd him into the machine. It looks a lot like an elevator decked with complicated panels, buttons, and tech screens that are beaming with different notifications. Ant and the other Superior slide in just before the door closes completely, and then a low humming sound becomes steadily louder as Ant fiddles with the screens and switches while murmuring.

"Hope you're not squeamish, Styles."

//

With the gun hanging heavy over his shoulder and the injectors burning a hole through his belt strap, Harry feels like he's on an entire different plane of existence. His vision is swimming in and out as Bressie kicks open the door to some house. They all fall in behind him, crowding the entry hall with their broad shoulders. Harry stares directly ahead at the back of Ant's slightly exposed neck as Bressie starts hollering down the hallway.

Bressie heads up the stairs and Harry falls into line with them, pounding his boots against the worn carpet, sinking down slightly on the fifth step. _Sinking down slightly on the fifth step_ , Harry's heart drops. He looks over to the side and is assaulted with digital pictures. He feels like crying, he didn't even realize that he was in his own home until just now, but that's his stupid, smiling mug staring straight back him with his stupid haircut back then and then there's the picture of his Mum and Dad looking at each other so fondly that he almost believes that he would never leave.

A meaty hand pushes him out of his stupor and up the stairs, "Move. Remember to keep quiet." one of the Superiors whispers.

Harry drives his feet upwards, skipping over the step that always squeaks in protest on some weird form of autopilot, catching up to where Ant and Bressie are standing beside a closed door. _Gemma's_ closed door.

"Wanna do the honors?" The most stout Superior - the one that pushed Harry- asks the other unnamed one and Harry just _knows_ that he's smirking.

"Alright," The other grunts before hefting his gun up and kicking hard right beside the door. "Put your hands up and don't try anything They tried to teach you." he yells into the room.

" _Keep your head on, H, they're watching_." Niall's voice reverberates through the small speaker in his face mask. Harry racks in a harried breath before sliding into Gemma's room with the rest of them.

He wishes he didn't. He enters just in time to see Bressie grabbing Gemma by her lapels and hoisting her up. She looks so familiar, with her dark hair and burning eyes as she stares down at Bressie with such an intense _hatred_ that Harry's never seen on her face before. He sees it before any of them do, the switch in her facial expressions as she forms an idea, her foot hiking backwards, and then the power of her leg as she brings it down to kick hard at Bressie's crotch. Bressie unhands her and curls in on himself, just as Gemma clenches her hand - the same hand that she would use to slide the hair out of his face, the hand that Harry would hold when he was nervous and would sneak into her room to curl into her - and brings it down to punch Bressie square in the jaw, eliciting an anguished grunt from him. She thrusts her hand back again, squaring up for another brutal punch, but is stopped by one of the Superiors bringing down the end of his white gun over the back of her head with a dull _thwack_. Gemma's eyes search the room in panic and in pain (probably) and they land at Harry just before her feet go out from under her due to a well-placed kick on Bressie's behalf. Harry watches in horror as red blood blossoms from her dark hair and a few drops fall onto Gemma's pristine, white carpet. He has this overwhelming urge to catch her, to hold her against his chest and tell her that it will all be okay, that he won't let this happen, that her brother is here.

It's almost like Ant is reading his thoughts, because he leans over to Harry and whispers, "You sure about that, kid?"

Harry shakes his head, anchoring his feet to the floor while a spare tear falls from his eye slowly. She just looks so hopeless.

Gemma's eyes snap open just as Bressie and another Superior apprehend her wrists. "Let-me-say-goodbye," she whispers, her word counter only going down to 03.

"You think that you deserve that, you scum?" Bressie barks out and then nods at Ant. "Go."

Ant nods and grips Harry's arm, frogmarching him closer to where Gemma is struggling under their grasps, kicking and twisting about uselessly.

"Have him inject her," The other Superior instructs.

"But she's already -"

"Have him inject her." He grits. Ant sighs and turns to Harry, handing him an injector that is labelled with an ominous red color.

"Go on then, inject her." Ant tells Harry.

 _No_ . He can't. What if this injector kills Gemma? He could _never_ . But what if he doesn't? He won't only be denied his Superior position, but he would probably also be cited as an Unconformist. This might be what's best for Gemma anyways, if she isn't properly apprehended then Gemma could become a full-fledged Unconformist, one that's like Tomlinson and kills people without batting an eye. Gemma wouldn't want to do that, she wouldn't want to even be associated with such merciless killers. _Think about all of the people deceased in Pod R_ , this is for them. _Sorry, Gems_ , Harry still has to close his eyes as he sticks the long needle into her arm and presses down. Gemma's eyes roll to the back of her head and Harry has to turn away, he just can't watch. His Mum would hate him if she knew. He hates himself.

"Alright." Bressie smacks a silencer onto her neck, letting the tech buzz and seep into her veins for a little bit before nodding at Ant and Harry. "Grab her legs."

Ant holds onto one of her ankles, Harry follows suit and looks up at Bressie for further instruction.

"Let's get her out of here, her transit should be ready by now. Ignore the family if they try to speak to you." Bressie says and then nods at Ant. Ant starts to move backwards and everyone follows suit, toting Gemma - larger than life, strong-headed Gems - around like she is some useless rag doll, like she.. isn't really there anymore. What has Harry done? He wants to take it all back. He could have saved Gemma, that would've been his chance. Harry swallows back the bitter taste that's coming with his shameful tears and walks forward with the other Superiors.

"No," his mother screams as they walk down the stairs. " _No_ ! My baby." She's crying. Harry made his mum cry. He took her daughter, he's taking away some of the pieces of her, he's so so _sorry_.

"Gemma?" Harry his own voice, albeit softer and not as rough as it is now. He looks over to see his younger self, slight and still wearing his school kit running towards them worriedly. He watches as his own, smaller mouth pops open and tears burst from his own eyes that were then too big for his small face. "Don't take Gemma!" His younger self begs, latching onto the only Superior that isn't holding Gemma's limbs.

Harry watches as the man pushes his younger self into the entry table, shielding him from getting closer to Gemma, Harry forgot about that, but now he remembers, how there was bursts of pain everywhere: in his back, on his hands, behind his eyes from the tear, in his heart from having his sister torn away. And it's all his own fault. He never knew - it's all him, he broke his own heart. He is the reason why his bright sister was dimmed, he is the reason why the _entire world_ was dimmed, because Gemma was just that bright. He wants to rip off his face mask, to tell his younger self and his mum that he's sorry. To warn his younger self to never turn out to be like him.

" _Don't, Harry. You're doing so well_ ." Niall's voice warns. " _You're almost finished, you can do this_."

Right, he _can_ do this. Remember Pod R, be who they want you to be. No one will know that he did this. He'll just carry it all in his own mind. Harry keeps walking out of his own home, trying to ignore the labored, broken heaves that his younger self is screaming at them. _I'm so sorry_.

Bressie instructs them to toss Gemma - _literally_ \- into the back of a hover craft, which Harry helps do, all while cringing and trying to catalogue every detail of her face just to ensure that he won't ever forget a single aspect of her. He wishes that he could find a way to store that single frame of her in this moment - in any moment - so that he'll never lose her. He loves her. He hates himself.

Harry feels like he's drowning as Ant leads them back to an alleyway where the _Mod X_ is. There's a metaphorical ball and chain, making him feel sluggish and like he's underwater. He gazed down at his Superior kit, trying to figure out when the younger self that he got a glimpse of changed into this heartless version of himself. He lost that Harry in the woodworks and change of the tides of his life. He wishes that he could get him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments make me feel valid. hmu on [tumblr](http://voguelourry.tumblr.com)


	11. Chapter 11

Harry sighs and eyes the clock in the corner of his scribe once more, it's like the minutes couldn't shift any slower. The world has been dipped in molasses and Harry feels like his mind is moving at a thrice as quick pace on all it's own. There's been a dull ache resting snugly in between his temples ever since the day of his Obstacles, niggling at him and threatening to burst open and eat him alive. But he's been doing well so far at keeping it contained, compartmentalizing until this achy feeling isn't anything but a steady thrum.

Cool fingers press onto his bare wrist, tapping twice. Zayn, then. Harry peers over at him, watching his dark eyes as they look meaningfully at Harry. The silencer still stands stark against Zayn's warm skin, and so do the questions that always erupt in his mind every time he looks at it. Why they give Zayn back to normalcy but not Gemma, being one of the usual ones. But there's an entirely new onslaught of others after that, of what if Harry killed Gemma and that's why she's never came back, what if something that Harry did caused all of this pain for his family?

No. He cannot think about it. Niall told him as much over tea after he finished his Obstacles, Harry remembers everything so vividly from that day, from the slight spice of the tea to the wary lines that scrunched up Niall's face as he grabbed Harry's hand, eyes reflecting the sky lights of the pod at night.

"You can't dwell on it," Niall had insisted. Voice actually taking on some authority that Harry's never heard from him. "If you think about it, it will eat you up from the inside. You did what you had to do, Harry."

Harry also remembers crying, sitting in one of Niall's stupidly plush velvet chairs and breaking apart, mouth moving around unsung words. Of course I'll think about it, Harry would've said, I love her, she's my sister, I ruined her life. And Niall just offered the crook of his neck for Harry to bury himself into, humming as Harry sobbed wetly into his prim shirt, even weaving his hand through Harry's hair at one point and rocking the both of them. Harry'd never felt what he was feeling at that moment before, this all consuming loathing all at aimed at himself. He wanted to tear off his own skin, wanted to even stop breathing for one terrifying moment. It was all scary and so real that Harry cried even harder. He just felt so undeserving of life itself, he probably killed Gemma, and even if he didn't, he took her away. He took her words, the one thing that she loved more than their Mum or Harry, himself.

He felt like a heartless warrior, one that would strip someone of their means, their ways of fighting back, and then - while the victim laid there struggling to take in a single more breath - stole the person's dignity as well. Like it's not enough for him to take something, they have to take the one thing that they have left, the most treasured thing that someone has. And Harry did that, to Gemma, of all people. He's awful, he's a truly horrendous person. He's no better than a bloody Unconformist.

That was the point when Harry started silently screaming with his cries, chest caving in while his mouth tasted salty. Niall's hand had gently pried him upwards, angling Harry to look him into the eye.

"You get one good cry about this, alright. And then we forget that it happened, alright? You have so much potential, Harry. The Movement sees you as someone that can bring a new age about for us, but they won't think that you're any good if you allow yourself to become a shell of who you once were." Niall had wiped underneath Harry's eyes with one hand then. "Because that's what this can do. It can absolutely ruin you, gut you until you're just another Mindless going about the motions, all while harboring a guilt so strong that it makes you lie in bed and cry until you feel like your eyes have been dried out. This is how they sort the strong from the weak, Harry, we all had to do it."

Everybody had to do it. That means that all of the Superiors now have silenced someone, someone close to them. And Niall had offered his story so easily as soon as Harry furrowed his brow and detached his grip from Niall's shirt.

"My mum." Niall had breathed out quickly. "I silenced my mum. It was awful. I didn't have anyone to turn to after it was over. I just locked myself into my flat while my mate was out on business and cried pitifully. I even have some battle scars from my little episode, too, but I didn't let the guilt get to me. Sure, I wake up some days and feel like I'm drowning, like a villain, but all of those thoughts go just as soon as they come. I have them all locked up right here" -Niall had pointed at his forehead- "and I'll face them when I'm lying on my death bed. Visit my demons when there's very little time to dwell on them and all."

Niall's advice had helped somewhat. Every thought Harry has had about Gemma ever since his 'good cry' has went to another place, to the dull thrum in his skull. But it still hits him when he lets down his resolve, like when he's stroking Dusty's back and she looks up at Harry with these wide eyes that trigger memories of the frightened way Gemma had glanced up at Harry just before one of the Superior's hit her and elicited that dull thwack against her head that will haunt him for the rest of his days.

Zayn taps Harry even harder on the wrist now, dousing him with a fresh wave of shock that pulls him quickly out of his reverie. He tilts his head towards a little boy standing in front of their desk with a frightened smile etched over his face.

Harry takes his name, his finger scan, and pens his name down for the next open slot with this practiced ease that honestly scares him. Harry thought he would never see the day when he'd cart a child off to lose their freedom with their words and not even feel a hint of remorse all the way through. It's like the last metaphorical nail in his coffin, Harry has lost himself, lost his sympathy, and that terrifies him to no end.

Sometimes he wishes that he could look at himself, to compare this new version of him to the one that he sees in the pictures at his Mum's house, to see if his face has changed as much as his personality has. He wonders if that boy, the one with the soft edges and the bright eyes has slowly hardened into something entirely different like how his personality has.

A scribe is slid into his line of vision from where he's been staring pensively at the pristine white of the massive desk. It's Zayn's scribe, the old issue one, and 'Are you alright?' is written in his blocky text. Harry glances over at Zayn, nods slightly, and then slides the scribe back over to Zayn. Zayn's gently concerned eyes flash with worry but Harry ignores it. Is it that obvious that Harry's not okay? Is it evident that he feels like he's drowning in his own thoughts? Will the person who will tell him his results from his Obstacles see his turmoil, too?

Harry's about to pick up his scribe and ask as much from Zayn, but their shift is just ending and he can't hold Zayn back from rushing home (or wherever he goes after their shift is over) like how he does every single day. Zayn always shoves his scribe into his messenger bag and is already opening his hover board and booting it up before he's even out the door, like he has somewhere to get to quickly. Harry usually meanders and triple checks that all of their tech is turned off and their desk is locked, but today, he's in a rush to get out as well. He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and engages his hover board, even though the location he was told to go to is at an easy walking distance from his workplace.

The flight to the old warehouse-turned-revived-government-office-building stretches for forever, to Harry at least. His mind is racing, wondering if he really gave the best effort that he could during his Obstacles, if he totally mucked up his Standards, if they weren't pleased with the thoughts that he had when he was helping in the process of silencing Gemma. He's already a flight risk in their eyes, he's not starting out with the best of footing. But Niall said that he was great in the Obstacles, he's worrying over nothing, hopefully. Even if they only give him a low ranking Superior position, his mum would still be proud.

The office building is large and ornate and extremely horrifying in a way that Harry can't explain. Or maybe it's the current situation that he's about the thrust himself into that's making his palms slicken and his heart feel like it's shrinking in the cavity of his chest.   No matter what, Harry is stressed and itching just to get his results briefing over with.

The piece of tech that Niall had given him the other day (which is basically a small slab of digitized glass that has different types of three dimensional maps and different light flares signalling heat radiation) buzzes in one of his pockets. One of the small dots that's several floors above him on the projected hologram of the building is a low blue color, symbolizing the person that he needs to meet. Harry follows the projected green line on the path that signals how he should get there, and sooner rather than later, the red dot that represents him is meshing with the blue dot, making a lilac color on the tech. Harry shoves the tech back into his pocket and presses his forefinger against the scanning pad that's placed where the door knob would typically be on the door. The door slides open near silently but quickly, and Harry is immediately assaulted with the serene view of the amber sun setting low over the Pod's skyline. It's beautiful, really, the way that the soft yellow meshes with the delightful oranges and the muted pinks, swirling to make a sweet melody on the clouds, lighting the sky with the promise of eternal beauty and ending the day with a gentle whisper of goodbye. Harry can stare at it forever, basking in the way that the colors reflect off of the silver of all of the buildings and how there's a slow breeze toying with the spordaic trees that were placed throughout the city in order to ensure natural balance.

"Mr. Styles," a deep -slightly restless- voice beckons, efficiently robbing him of his resolve and setting the nerves alight in his body once more. This is actually happening. Harry moves to stand in front of the red faced man whose greying at the temples and shakes his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Sit, please."

Harry gingerly settles himself into the white chair and nods at him politely.

"Alright, then. Well, I am Simon Cowell, the Head of Admissions for Superior Entry, and I have been keeping a close eye on your training process as you've went through the movements of becoming one of us. And I have to say, your loyalty and your actions pleased us greatly. Everything that you have done in reaction to everything that we've put you through has been fundamentally perfect." Harry tries to bite back his smile at being called fundamentally perfect, because the look on Simon's face seems slightly somber and hesitant, like he's building Harry up now just to break him down later. Harry's heart is sinking and flying in perfect symphony to Simon's words, and he tries to tamp down any thought at all and focus on Simon as he purses his lips and exhales, the sunset behind him giving him an unearthly halo that somehow makes Harry feel even smaller in comparison. "Really, you are, you have the optimal genetics, the obedience, the correct knowledge about The Movement. You even shocked one of the Unconformists out of loyalty to your cause. You have the kind of personality and aura that can help The Movement greatly. I can even see myself working for you, one day. But, with even all of that being said, The Movement is inquisitive if you can be trusted with a high position, with the details of our system."

Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Simon silences him with one hand before continuing. "Don't get me wrong, The Movement has been watching you for a while and doesn't truly believe that you're a threat to us. But we have certain details about you that lead us to believe otherwise.." Simon pulls open a drawer in his desk and places something onto the desk. It's odd looking, with leather-like-material encasing what Harry can see as thin lines in between the two leather pieces that seem to be holding the lines all together, but it's what Harry sees on the top, written on a small white label in an all too familiar script, is  _ 'Recruiting H' _ . Harry's heart steadily sinks all the way down to his feet; he can still identify Gemma's handwriting from kilometers away. Simon flips one of the leather pieces open to reveal even more of Gemma's handwriting on paper -which is illegal, that must mean that this entire thing that Gemma had was illegal, how did she get her hands on this?- and Simon keeps flicking through the pages, keeping his eyes steady on Harry, whose straining to see what some of it says he only gets a few glimpses of things like Truth Talks, lies, and deprivation, but it's a fruitless act, Simon closes the thing and clears his throat pointedly. "According to this journal that your sister has kept while she was still.. active in rebellion, she was gaining information on how to recruit you to be an Unconformist. She even said that she began the groundwork for the recruit, and she even stated 'I truly believe that Harry will be an amazing Unconformist, if the process continues as it has been.' She's been gathering information to give to you, lies all to cloud your mind and make you disobedient to The Movement, and for all we know, she could've successfully recruited you, you could just be better at hiding it than she was."

Harry shakes his head. Gemma tried to recruit him? No, he doesn't remember her ever doing something like that. Harry isn't an Unconformist, he isn't. "We wouldn't be handling this situation with such severity if it didn't appear as if you've connected to your sister's former allies, Zayn Malik and Louis Tomlinson. We see you engage with them, and it appears that you tolerate their rebellious actions, you can see why we find this suspicious, right, Mr. Styles? Your sister has worked with those two men to recruit you and now, years later, you are regularly around them. It'd be extremely easy for them to exploit and convert you to their side, and we cannot have someone with your genetic makeup and endless loyalty falling to the wrong side."

Harry nods slowly, his mouth slowly drying as Simon maintains a slightly terrifying sort of eye contact with him. He didn't search out Louis or Zayn, they just ended up being near him and in his life semi-regularly. It's not his fault. He doesn't want to be an Unconformist, he wants to be one of the great Superiors that Simon boasted that he thought Harry could be.

"I know that you must think that The Movement is overreacting, but we refuse to take any risks when it comes to admitting Superiors. Therefore, even though you are technically deserving of a high position, we will be giving you a lower one temporarily." Harry breaks eye contact from Simon, vainly trying to not let the tears that are building fall out of his eyes, the rejection making his chest feel like it's burning and constricting all at the same time. "Don't look so upset, Mr. Styles, I'm not finished. I have chatted with all of the higher-ups, trying to place you in a better position than an officer, and we all have came to an agreement. The Movement has decided that you will work as an officer for the time being, but while you are filling this occupation you will be doing another.. assignment."

Simon puts the 'journal' back into his desk and slides a sleek scribe across the desk and in front of Harry.

"Your side assignment is to exploit your connections to one Louis Tomlinson and recruit him to be a full, loyal citizen to The Movement."

//

Harry has been spending the past three days trying to find an excuse to walk into Liam and Louis' flat to no avail. The best excuse that he could come up with yet is that they're sometimes too loud doing.. things at night, but that wouldn't be a too grand way to insert himself into their lives more often. If anything, it would just make the tension between the three of them even more palpable. Luckily for him, Liam gives Harry the perfect excuse on day four of Operation Convert Louis to the Bright Side.

It starts with Liam practically bursting Harry's door open, wild eyed and sweating with his thought censors askew on his forehead.

"Harry," even the projection of his thoughts sound out of breath. "Can you? -I'm so sorry for this- But can you come to my flat, like, now?"

Harry detaches his hand from where he was rubbing at Dusty's hair and nods. Not minding to put on an actual shirt -as opposed to the one that he's currently wearing, which has a gaping hole on the ribs and the left armpit- before following Liam out of his own flat and into Louis and Liam's open door.

Harry scans the living room quickly, everything looks exactly the same as the past few times he's visited. Everything except for a currently bleeding Zayn Malik lying in the middle of the floor, appearing to be unconscious from the looks of how sated his face is, how he doesn't look like he's harboring a thousand secrets in the clench of his jaw like how Harry usually sees him do.

"I just-" Liam's voice resurfaces from where he was in a separate room, panicked and tetchy. "I just got scared. I've never seen this man before and-"

Harry glances up to see Liam holding up a steel-looking vase. With actual blood dripping from the dull edge of it. Worriedly, Harry rushes over to Zayn and moves his -terrifyingly limp- frame over to where he can see the back of his head, which is currently seeping out blood from a grotesque gash.

"We need help," Harry says aloud, so thankful that he hasn't used his words yet today.

Liam's perpetually furrowed brows sink even lower, "We don't have to do that."

Harry shoots a quick glare towards Liam, of course they need to get help. Zayn is bleeding from his head, and his usually warm skin color is slowly starting to fade. Harry actually almost has to bite back tears, he has grown quite fond of Zayn over the past months that they've been working together. He even gave Harry a small cake on his last day at the Clinic and they had a parting hug. He's always seen Zayn as this big, enigmatic, person who seemed so untouchable and full of spirit, and to have his hands covered with Zayn's own crimson blood while watching the life slowly fade out of him is something that Harry can feel embedding itself in his heart right under the category that's neatly labelled Things To Scar Me Forever right along with the guilt of injecting Gemma. He doesn't know whether to look away or to stare longer to try and decide how bad of a shape Zayn is really in. But Liam decides that for him by plopping down right beside Harry, still cradling the vase in his knobby hands that are caked with Zayn's blood.

"I came into the flat because i forgot my badge to get into work, and there was this bloke just sitting on my couch, messing around with injectors. He didn't notice me come in, so I dumped the flowers that Louis gave me the other day onto the floor and snuck up behind him and hit him in the head. I didn't expect him to bleed." Liam cradles his face in his hands and sighs. "I just. I saw his silencer, right? And I was scared, because Unconformists are bad, obviously, and they've been doing a lot of surprise attacks on innocent people. I thought that he was waiting for Louis and I to get home. That he was going to kill us. So I struck first, but we need to dispose of him before Louis comes home. I already cleaned up the flowers, but I need this.. thing out of here. Do you think you can hide him in your flat? You don't have to worry about any vitals-trackers sending assistance, we don't keep track of them."

For a few blinding seconds, all Harry feels is rage. It's like he can feel the flames igniting through his pores, leaking from his body and burning the floor with angry licks of fire. He just feels so blindingly angry, at innocent Liam, of all people. People aren't just things that need to be disposed of, no matter what their beliefs are. Harry knows Zayn well enough to know that he would never hurt someone, even if he is an Unconformist. Zayn is a person, and he's bleeding and slowly fading and he needs help. There's so many flaws in Liam's thought process, but, Harry realizes with a shuddering breath, he's supposed to think the same way as Liam. That's what The Movement wants. For the Unconformists to be condemned and for the Citizens to all treat each other equally. It's the thoughts like this, the angry ones where Harry feels like rectifying the Unconformists and painting an innocent picture for them, that are going to get Harry in trouble. So he nods agreeably.

"Thank you so much, Harry. Lou has a bit of a hero-complex on him, so I know that he'd try to give this sod help that he doesn't deserve." Liam walks to the kitchen and hands Harry a flannel. "Wipe up, I don't want you to get more blood on yourself."

Harry starts wiping at his hands when he hears the telltale whoosh of the door opening, he can tell that Liam does, too, based off the quick stiffening of his back and the way his head whips to the entry hall.

"Babe, are you home already?" Louis' voice calls, and Harry's hit with these mutinous feelings of fear, guilt, and anger towards Louis. "Thought I heard voices in here and-"

Louis pauses his spiel when he walks into the living room, his face going through melancholy of emotions -confusion, hurt, fear, rage- before slipping into a careful look of calculated blankness. The only sign that he's really even emotionally present is the twitch of his eyebrows and how his mouth is slightly agape.

"What've you done?" He asks, voice dangerously low, glaring at Harry. Which, isn't completely uncalled for. Louis has witnessed Harry do a lot of violent things, like shocking him and punching him, but those actions aren't really Harry, or the person that he used to be, at least.

"I'm so sorry, Louis. I was just about to get rid of him." Liam intervenes, covertly hiding the blood caked vase behind his back.

"Get rid of him?" Louis echoes, sounding so horrified that Harry feels like an intruder; he's always seen Louis holding his composure, and to see him now, so lost and scared and angry is totally outlandish. "You were just going to... what? Liam get your kit, we have to help him."

"I'm not helping him. We're better off if there's one less of them around." Gesturing at Zayn's silencer exasperatedly.

"Liam," Louis sounds so hurt, and the what's happened to you? is obvious but remains unsung. "You're not going to let him bleed out like this."

"It's what we're supposed to do. You saw the airing Louis, they're the enemy. We need to eliminate as many as we can."

"Eliminate them? Tell me, did Za- did he even do anything to you? Anything to deserve this?" Louis' voice is purely hysterical, he turns to Harry, one hand fistinf and pulling at his own hair. "Did you tell Liam to do this?"

"No. No to both. No that Unconformist didn't do anything to me and no Harry didn't tell me to hit him. Harry was just being a good Citizen and was going to help me dispose of him, that's all."

Louis slides a hand through Zayn's blood matted hair and inhales deeply. "Go get your kit, Liam. You're not the kind to kill someone."

Liam's hands move like he wants to say something, but he must decide against it. Probably because Louis looks so hopeless and small, huddled in on himself while stroking Zayn. When Liam moves out of the room, Louis' body folds in over Zayn's limp one like he's trying to shield him from all of the nonexistent dangers of the room.

"Gemma would be so disappointed in you," Louis says to Harry after a few beats of silence. "You really wasn't going to help him? You know that he's been in this very flat before and never posed a threat to anyone. You know that and you were just going to let him bleed out."

Harry recoils like he's been struck. He wasn't - he didn't mean it like that. He was just doing what he was supposed to do, he was acting the Superior way. He doesn't want Zayn to die; he's just - he doesn't know what he's doing or what he's thinking, it just all feels like every action he makes is out of his own hands. Like he's watching everything that he does like a horrified audience member, not wanting everything that happens to happen. He wants to fold in on himself and scream, to claw at the remnants of the old him and hold on for dear life even though he has no idea how to.

Everything that's happening to him, it's so much bigger than just him. It's bigger than his love for Gemma, it's bigger than his thoughts, it's bigger than anything he could ever try to say with his lack of words. He's just doing what he's supposed to do, moving through the motions in the hopes of whatever this huge, omniscient thing that everything's gearing up for ends up well. It's not his fault that he's been caught in the turmoil of it all for reasons that's never been explained to him.

Liam returns with the same huge, steel case that he had when Harry fell off his hoverboard, mouth set in determination that is a stark contrast from his eyes are folded up in confusion.

"Fix him," Louis' projection rings through the flat eerily. Zayn's head is still pooling blood, but now it's congealing on Louis' trousers. "Fix him, Liam, dammit."

Liam nods, visibly biting his tongue and opening up the steel case and pulling out an assortment of needles and plasters and odds and ends that Harry could never think of being able to name.

"Treat him like you would a citizen." Louis tells Liam, staring meaningfully at him before grabbing one of their throw pillows and placing it gingerly underneath Zayn's head.

"Lou, our pillow-"

"Will be fine. And it's your fault, anyways, so don't complain. I'm going to make tea and our guest bed up; he's staying with us when he wakes up. You owe him that much." Louis says everything like he's so sure that Zayn will be okay, and it gives Harry a glimmer hope even though he's drowning in his own thoughts, his own guilt. "You. Come with me."

Harry scrambles up to his feet and follows Louis as he strides to the back bedroom that he's come to note as his Louis' workshop.

"I didn't mean to be so terse," Louis starts as soon as he closes the door. "It's just. I was told so much about you. From Gemma, from the people watching you, and you just come in and you're so... hardened. Can you believe that Gems first thing she told us about you is that ' _ H could never hurt a fly' _ and imagine how shocked I was to see someone with Gemma's face -someone who I was told that would end up being on our side- staring me right in the eye and giving me high doses of voltage all for the sake of The Bloody Movement." Louis rifles through one of his drawers and pulls something out and tosses it to Harry: a thought censor. "And then, I come home to find my mate and this infuriating lad just standing around my best friend that was bleeding out of his head like he was some nuisance. I'm allowed to be a little distraught, I think. And I want you to explain. Everything."

Harry's fingers feel numb as he tries to place the censors on his forehead, but he's sweating too much, is too nervous to put it on properly. Louis sighs and sticks them to his forehead for him. Harry almost screams when a deep vibration jolts through his skull and his vision swims momentarily. All the while, Louis steps back, mouth set and quirked eyebrow demanding an answer.

"I don't know what you want me to explain," Harry begins carefully, feeling odd that he's saying things without moving his mouth and being hit with the guilty nostalgia of when he shocked Louis. "Because Gemma never told me anything about you. No one has ever even told me that I was on the Superior track until a few days, but they've been watching me my whole life supposedly. They're watching how I act with you and Zayn."

Louis steps forward, grasping Harry's chin and jerking his head downwards until they're looking each other dead in the eye. Louis' eyes are a liquid blue flame, enveloping Harry with this fierce determination and flickering like he's searching for something, like he's studying Harry. It's in these moments that Harry understands why The Movement fears him, when he shows this unstoppable leader-like quality that fills the room with electricity. Louis releases his hold on Harry and pulls at his own bottom lip with knobby fingers, still regarding Harry carefully.

"You're really clueless about everything, aren't you?"

Harry isn't sure what he's expecting, precisely, perhaps a detailed description of What Louis Finds Wrong In This World, but he surely wasn't expecting for Louis, with his matted hair and burning eyes, to shoulder past him without another word, leaving Harry without explanation.

For a brief moment Harry feels disoriented, like one of those prehistoric floating things that Gemma told him about once, drifting aimlessly in a rocky sea with no sense of direction, just being and not doing. It's terrifying, in every way possible.

He's dragged out of his downward spiral by an extremely loud sound of distress coming from no other place than the living room. He takes a stagnant breath and shoves his hair off his forehead. Focus, right. Don't let Louis kill Liam, don't let Zayn die. Alright. It's an easy task. (It's not. This entire day is bloody mental, he wants to delve under his starched blankets and huddle over Dusty and forget all of this ever happened. Or maybe he could go slip into his issued Superior kit, work himself into the facade of someone who knows what to do and is always a step ahead of the rest of society.)

"What do you mean that he's a friend of your's?" Liam's censors all but screeches as soon as Harry walks himself back into the living room. "How could you possibly be acquainted with one of them?"

"I meant what I said." Louis visibly flounders for a moment before taking a piece of gauze and gently pressing it to Zayn's blood-addled temple. "I mean.. I met him before he had that," Louis tacks on hurriedly, gesturing empathically at Zayn's stark, white silencer. "But I still consider him my friend."

"Those people aren't friends, Lou. They're animals. Look what they've done to the world that The Movement has created. They find any and every excuse to try and ruin it, but they can't because they're idiots with no sense of morals."

Louis shifts uncomfortably at that, and Harry almost feels pity for him. It must hurt, for the person that he's supposed to love endlessly and be loved back by to openly disregard something that Louis' obviously very much a part of. But Louis chose to be this way, and what Liam said is true.

"He's still human, yeah? At the end of it all we're all the same. No matter what our beliefs are." Louis squares his shoulders and looks up at Liam. "Now check his pulse, please. And Harry? Leave."

Harry shakes his head, he's not leaving. Not with Zayn still lying on the floor like that and both Louis and Liam looking very much like one step away from a mental break down.

"Yes, you are. This is my flat, I'm kicking you out. Leave."

Harry tries to return the steadfast glare that Louis aims at him, but his resolve weakens at how disheveled and in pain Louis looks in the stale, sinking sunlight of the flat. So, he leaves behind a shaken Louis, a slowly bleeding Zayn, and a frantic Liam in exchange for his own flat.

Dusty mewls and paws at his leg as soon as he crosses his own threshold, and he can almost force himself to forget everything that he just saw.

He picks her up at and stares into her glassy eyes, forcing himself back into the mind frame of eighteen year old Harry, the one who was so ecstatic to have a companion in his life when he first got Dusty. The one who thought that all of the Bad Things in this world were astronomically far away. Younger Harry didn't know what it actual blood looked like, and Younger Harry would've taken pity on Louis or Zayn, would've offered to help them and maybe even would've tried to see if they could help him find Gemma.

But Younger Harry would've never hurt people like how he has. He wouldn't have watched a man get electrocuted for answering a bloody question wrong, he wouldn't have punched said man in the face, he definitely wouldn't have injected Gemma with some undid liquid, and the person that Harry, himself, used to be would never be able to bring himself to 'dispose' of someone's body, no matter who they are.

The pursuing guilt overrides his system and addles him until he can hardly even move. Harry doesn't even really want to move. He'd be more than fine to just starve and cave in on himself, standing rooted to this very spot until he withers away into nothing but a pile of guilt and dysfunctional bones. Maybe that will be a good enough repercussion for all of the pain he's caused. Maybe he could continue to make it up to everyone he's hurt in his next lives. Everything would be better, less people would be hurt by him if-

Dusty mewls plaintively, nuzzling against his cheek. Right. Dusty needs to be fed. He couldn't very well leave Dusty behind in this world anyways, she might not get taken care of without him, and that's not a risk he wants to take. He loves her too much.

//

He's not sure exactly what time it is, he just knows that the moon is shining dimly through the slats of his curtains, casting everything in a pale, blue glow and that someone is knocking on the door impatiently. Harry shifts out of his bed, minding to not wake up Dusty from her deep sleep and not even bothering to slip on anything other than a pair of old and probably not clean pants.

He opens up his door, scratching his stomach and furrowing his eyebrows at the hunched over figure before him.

"I don't want to be here." Louis announces and shoulders past Harry and into his flat. "But there's no other place to go. I spent the entire night sneaking Zayn back into his Mum's without waking her or his sisters up, and when I came home I realized that I couldn't bring myself to go into bed with Liam, and I can't quite go to HQ without Zayn because I'd be a sodding idiot to make the trip alone. So the only place that was left was here, with you. And I really don't want to be with you right now, but."

Harry's mouth gapes but he doesn't say anything, he's too lazy to even check how many words he has at the moment.

"Here." Louis unceremoniously shoves some sensors onto Harry's temple, mouth still twisted in disgruntlement. "Now, fight back."

"Fight back?"

"Yes, fight back. Tell me I can't come in. That I should bugger off and go crawl into my mate's bed because that's what The Movement wants me to do."

"I.. In all honesty, it's late, I've had a long day. I couldn't care less what you want to do. Just, crash on my couch and take off your shoes, please."

With that, Harry turns on his heel. His bed is beckoning him for a few more hours of much-needed sleep before he has to take an early shift on guard duty where he practically just keeps a stoic face and permits civilians into one of the important buildings at HQ.

"Wait," Louis follows him down the hall, of course. "Can we just.. talk, please? I feel so alone right now, and years ago this is the kind of thing that I would come to Gemma for. I mean you're definitely not Gemma, but you do kind of have her face."

"That doesn't make sense. At all."

"Of course it bloody doesn't! I nearly watched my best mate die because the man I love bashed him over the head. And to make things even worse, the sibling of my other best mate that I haven't seen in years was going to help dispose of his body even though he knows how much of a good person Zayn is." Louis upends himself into Harry's bed and punches at a pillow before shoving his face into it. "And I actually thought that you'd end up to be one of the Alright People. That you just had a blind put over your eyes and that's why you act like such an idiot. It turns out, of course, that all of the efforts that Gemma -that I- put into your recruitment was pointless. You were actually going to let Zayn die when you know that you could've used your voice to convince Liam to get him help."

"My voice? What?"

Louis only replies in the form of a broken off breath. Great. He fell asleep. Louis really seems to have a penchant for leaving Harry without proper explanations.

Harry sighs and picks Dusty up from the bed. He'll sleep on the couch, then.

//

Harry wakes up to a pre-written message projected onto his bare living room wall. It's glaring a harsh blue light at him and is illuminating the whole entire den. He almost feels hesitant as he reads then rereads the message given to him.

_ 'We need to speak, soon. -L.' _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are amazing. hmu on [tumblr](http://voguelourry.tumblr.com)


	12. Chapter 12

**_LOUIS’ POV_ **

If there's one thing that Louis hates with a burning passion, it's his Superior kit. It's ill-fitting, an annoying shade of white, and generally uncomfortable. At least he's not alone in his total distaste for the offending outfit, if Zayn's weak snort is anything to go by.

"You look like a tosser." Zayn projects from where he's lying on the small nest of blankets Louis made for him. "They didn't even give you the right size."

"Of course they didn't," Louis says aloud and sits on his small rolling chair by his work desk, rolling up the cuffs of his too-long trousers and mentally planning the demise of several Movement Officials. "The Movement never makes a mistake unless they're pissed off."

Louis checks how many words he has left-  _ 48 _ -and shakes his head, pressing one of the panels on his wristband, watching smugly when the number shifts to the standard  _ 04. _ It took him a lot of work to manipulate the wires of the band to give him more words, and even more to assure that he blends in with all of the civilians; it will always be the invention that he's most proud of.

"Well, you're quite good at pissing them off. A natural havoc supplier."

"You do woo me, Z. Now, get some rest. And just call for Liam if you need to change your bandage. Or if you're hungry. Just- don't strain yourself, alright?"

"Noted, Tommo. But I'm probably not going to ask for anything. It's not worth speaking to him if I don't have the strength to clock him just yet."

"You can't punch my mate."  _ Even though you're more than justified to, and I kind of want to punch him, too. _

"He's a twat, Lou. A twat that bashed me in the back of the head with a vase. I think I should get a free pass to punch him in his terrifyingly large doe eyes."

Louis opens his mouth, gearing up to inform Zayn that perhaps he'll allow it, as long as Louis, himself, is not present for said punch but is cut off by the whoosh of the door opening. Liam whisks in with his eyes set on the ground and a scribe in his hands; he refuses to wear the Thought Projection Prototype any longer, having told Louis as soon as he returned to their flat from his kip with the Styles bloke that he felt guilty using it, that him using that puts him on the same "disgraceful" boat that Zayn's on. So he stopped, and Louis let him. Now Liam just totes his scribe around everywhere and projects bits of words to him. There's a strain between the two of them now, and Louis can feel the heavy weight of Liam's disappointment pressing in his chest. He just can't quite bring himself to care; not when he's disappointed in Liam, too.

" _ Your port departs in 15 minutes. _ " Liam projects the words into the air, staring stonily at Louis. He doesn't acknowledge Zayn; hardly has.  _ "Don't want to be late for your first day." _

Louis nods and stands, wiping his hands against his trousers and sparing Zayn a nod in parting; one that he returns. He looks odd like this, with gauze wrapped around his head and deep circles under his eyes. He's still unnaturally beautiful; but just not the radiant Zayn that Louis is used to. The dark, angry part of Louis blames it all on Liam. Liam hit Zayn over the head, Liam was going to let Zayn bleed out. The illusion that Louis built of Liam shattered completely in just a few quick seconds. Gone we the innocent Liam with his whole-hearted trust and loyalty. Gone was the person that Louis fell asleep wrapped around some nights, feeling this luxury of safety that he hardly comes by anymore. It was like the ground was swept out from beneath his feet in a few short seconds, and Louis is trying to just find new purchase.

Louis isn't an idiot, though. He might have a rebellious streak, and he might be known for not playing well with others, but he's too smart to actually be mad at Liam. The Movement is so far in his head, clouding every single one of his thoughts that every decision that Liam makes isn't really Liam's decision. Liam is the poster child for the mindless drone that The Movement tries to create with every single civilian. That's probably why they were mated together, to even out the playing field and such.

Louis grabs one of his silver flasks of tea that he keeps stocked in the kitchen -because there's no way in hell that he can deal with Movement Officials on a near regular basis and not be hyped up on insane amounts of illegitimate caffeine- and turns to Liam. He's looking down at Louis with shining eyes and small smile.

"You look dapper like this," Liam writes out on his scribe. "I'm so happy for you."

Louis twists his mouth into something like a smile and nods, trying not to feel guilty when Liam's face twists into something like a kicked puppy's. Fuck, this lad is making him go soft. Louis yanks him down by the chin and presses a chaste kiss to his open mouth before leaving the flat altogether.

Harry is standing just outside of his own flat, pigeon-toed and fiddling with the lock on his door. He's in his Superior kit, too, and his actually appears to be fitted. Figures, the bloke is going to be The Movement's most prized possession if things keep going the way they are, according to Louis' sources. Hopefully that won't happen though, at least, not if Louis has anything to do with it. All he has to do to get the plan that he and Paul worked endlessly over during his past few visits to the Outlands started is to swallow his own pride. Which.. has proven to be more difficult than he thought. It's not Louis' fault though, it's the clueless, curly haired prat's.

"Going somewhere, Curly?" Louis asks.

Harry startles, jumping up and turning his huge cow-eyes at Louis, a perfect picture of a child in fear. His limbs are too long and his mouth is too wide when it moves around unsung words. Louis just feels an irrational surge of abhorrence towards him for no true reason other than he's still walking around and unknowingly turning the world askew when it should be Gemma. If Gemma was here instead, everything would be so much more simpler.

Harry doesn't bother to reply, though, just breezes past Louis on insanely long legs, curls pulled back into some sort of a bun and mouth set in determination. There's no telling what goes on in that twat's head. Louis shrugs and makes his way over to his own port. He can always try harder next time.

//

Louis cannot deny his love for metal. He likes bending and manipulating it and forming new tech that astonishes even him, sometimes. It doesn't matter which side is supplying the tech pieces to him, as long as he get's to wander off to where he's alone and do things at his own pace. Currently, he is surrounded by projected holograms of the blueprints for one of his new prototypes that could end up being a collapsible scribe that can be worn as a ring while not in use. He's in his happy place, even if there are dumbarsed Superiors mucking about around him and trying to step on his toes. No one has tried to disturb him for a bit, not after he threw a wrench at one of the Superiors In Training for asking him a question when he was just about to solve an algorithm.

Louis brings one of the holograms closer to himself and squints at it, there's one bug that he can't seem to place that doesn't allow it to collapse. He's pretty sure it has to do with one of the pulleys being clogged. He shoves one of his atom-sized video cameras into the prototype and watches as he weaves for the malfunctioning bit. He almost has it all figured out, he knows it.

"Tomlinson -"

"Buggering shit," Louis jerks and spins around in his hovering chair.  _ Don't strangle someone on your first day, Tommo, you're trying to prove to these suits that you're not a complete red flag. _ "Oh. Niall."

The said interruption breaks out in a wide smile and plops himself down in an empty hovering chair.

"How's your first day going? I hope you're okay. We haven't talked for about five weeks, now, Tommo. I'm starting to miss you, a tad. My arm is killing me, must've slept on it wrong. Well, I must be off. Have a meeting to go to in a few hours."

Niall stares at Louis for a few seconds before hopping up and leaving Louis alone. That idiot might just be the most obvious person he's ever met. He just laughs and shakes his head, turning back to the projected live feed and keeping what Niall just told him in the corner of his mind.

//

Louis prides himself on being pretty intuitive and quick on his feet. It comes hand in hand with growing up with a pocketful of mischievous siblings and being classed as an Unconformist since birth. He's hardly snuck up on, and he is known for flailing his fists at any possible threat. He's a badarse, if he says so himself, someone to be fearful of.

So the fact that someone with meaty arms and an injector at the ready lifts him up and detains him with ease is just a fluke, really. He fights back, with a few well placed kicks and an artful punch in the meathead official's throat. He nearly escapes, is homebound and relishing the feeling of fresh air when he feels a zap of electricity behind his ear. It hurts like fuck, and he's not extremely proud of the high pitched sound he releases at the assault.

So Louis might be pretty intuitive and quick on his feet, but the fact that his eyes are rolling to the back of his head and he's being tossed over someone's shoulder like a ragdoll definitely does not attest to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are appreciated! hmu on [](http://voguelourry.tumblr.com>tumblr</a>)


	13. Chapter 13

**_HARRY’S POV_ **

Harry isn't quite sure where he is when he wakes up.

He doesn't even remember falling asleep; the last thing he can recollect is leaving his post guarding one of the Official Headquarters, eagerly looking forward to the cuddle with Dusty and the meager bowl of cold rice he had waiting back at his flat when a heavy arm wrapped around his neck and - holy shit, he was apprehended.

Harry shoots up from where he's lying down, or tries to. But his wrists and ankles are constrained by ominous metal bands to some weird, white, rubber cot. Fuck. He lies back down and stares up at the glaringly bright lights. There are other people around him, Harry decides, he can tell by just how it feels like the room is swelling with breaths that aren't his own. He can't tell if the others are people that are strapped to cots like him or if it's just people observing him strapped to the cot. His gut tells him that it's more than likely a mixture of the both. The area around him thrums with low voices and muffled groans.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry can almost pretend that this isn't actually happening. The world has been a plethora of confusing twists and happenings that he can't control for the past few months, and he just wants to go back. His heart yearns for the simpler time but the rational bits of him know that he can't ever retrieve those times again. So he might as well just open his eyes.

Harry glares up into the beaming florescent lights and weighs his options. There's a high possibility that he still has four words left, and it'd be pretty practical of him to use each one to ask the question of why is he here, but he can't quite force the words out of his mouth. He's afraid, in all seriousness.

"Buggering fuck," someone spits beside him. All-too loud and all- too annoying.

Buggering fuck, indeed.

"Louis?" Harry whispers, afraid to break his fragile silence.

No one answers, but Harry could've sworn that the person sounded just like Louis.

Harry almost tries to say his name again, louder this time, but is abruptly cut off by the jolting of his cot being moved to where he's forcibly sitting up.

Harry takes advantage of the new angle, his eyes searching fruitlessly around the room, looking for something, anything that's remotely familiar in this mess of new hands touching him quick voices enveloping him until they hone in on a disheveled fringe and vibrant eyes right across from him. Louis. Harry keeps his eyes anchored on him, the dissatisfied et of his mouth and the way that a bruise is blossoming on Louis' cheekbone, he doesn't even really note when a woman dressed in grey presses a small piece of tech to his arm and activates it with a scanner. There's a quick pinch and Harry looks down just in time to see blood rushing from a perfect square of where his skin was just removed. She presses another piece of his tech over his arm and it once she removes it, it looks like that square of skin was never even removed. A skin graph, then. But why would they need a sample of his skin in the first place?

The heavy coil of panic that has been  settled in his throat since he first awoke is starting to tighten.  _ Don't worry, everything will be okay _ , a warm voice that's sickeningly a lot like how he remembered Gemma's to be reverberates through his mind. But how can he not worry? What with constraints pressing tightly against his wrists and all of this controlled chaos that he doesn't understand swirling around him. Where even is he? Why is he here? What has he done to be apprehended?

"Calm down, Curly, I can hear your mind working from here."

Harry stares at Louis, wordlessly watching as he slides his eyes over all of the others that are currently getting their skin graphs before looking back down at his wrist. Harry isn't too surprised when one of the restraints around Louis' lithe wrists snaps open, the remaining restraint being unlocked soon after. An all-too pleased smile stretches across Louis' mouth as he slides off of the cot and strides towards Harry.

"Here's some advice, H, never lock a man in his own restraints." Louis whispers before producing a thin piece of wire from under his sleeve before digging it into Harry's own restraints.

"Wha-"

"I'm getting you out of here so that we can have a chat, and I'd like to be able to talk to you before you're even more so under The Movement's control." Louis unlocks both of the restraints and hoists Harry up. "It's already like talking to a bloody wall with you.. Can you walk any faster?"

Harry plants his feet to the floor; he's not going anywhere with Louis. He's not an Unconformist and he's not a bleeding idiot. The room is crawling with Superiors and he wants to actually be seen as a trustworthy citizen worthy of the status that The Movement has given him so graciously. Going with Louis is a death wish, and he just won't do it.

"Harold," Louis pivots on his back foot and makes the motion for Harry to follow him, solidifying the fact in Harry's mind that Louis is just a stupid Unconformist who will probably get a silencer by the end of the day if he keeps this up, and Harry will not be joining him. "Don't make me do this the hard way."

Harry furrows his brow and sits back on the cot, and Louis huffs out a sigh.

"You're such a prat," Louis bites, walking back towards him and pulling something out of his pocket. Harry opens his mouth to protest but is cut off with the all too familiar bite of an injector's needle piercing through the skin on his neck and the room blackening at the edges.

//

"You're quite stubborn, you know." Harry wakes up to Louis Tomlinson's idiotic face hovering over him and a sharp pain in his left wrist. "I wouldn't look down if I were you. It's quite gruesome."

Harry opens his mouth to ask what the hell Louis is on about, but all that comes out is the terrifying choked off wheezing sound that reminds him of his first day with limited words and his Mum's piteous look as he discovered that self-expression was a limited novelty in the world they're in.

"Yeah, sorry, had to cut off your vocal chords while I went about this. Don't worry, though, I'm nearly finished."

The alarm must be visible on his face, because Louis scoffs at him and shakes his head. "Don't worry, Curly, I'm just giving you some additional words -just like how they were going to at The Movement's little dramatic excursion, by the way, I'm just sparing you of the long arsed speech that comes with it.- then we can have a proper chat."

Harry lays back and stares at the ceiling of whatever room Louis has taken him to. He tries to urge up some sense of fight or flight in him, some way to defend what he believes in. But he feels so drained, is the thing. Like all of his drive has been tamped down until it reached the point that it's completely vanished. And scarily enough, he isn't as disturbed by that as he should be.

"There, I'm finished." Louis vanishes from Harry's eyeline abruptly. "Go on, now, give it a try."

"What?" Harry pushes out on an exhale and sits up, looking down at his wrist. A  _ 19 _ stands starkly on the band. The way that Harry's eyes roll to the back of his head as he nearly faints is something that he'll find the time to be ashamed about later.

"Christ, stay at least halfway alert, will you?"

Louis cuffs Harry lightly over the back of the head while breezing past him. Harry stares at the dust-caked window sill until Louis returns with a canister filled with water. He holds it out in front of Harry's mouth and he takes several greedy gulps from it.

"Why?" Harry asks after setting the canister down gingerly.

"Why were we apprehended? So that The Movement could start the transfer to being a Superior for all of us and give everyone more words. They were probably going to have some speech about the greater good in there, and you'd probably believe it. It was all just an utter waste of time, and I wasn't fully aware so I accidentally got myself temporarily apprehended, as well. But," Louis claps and smiles like he's mentally giving himself a pat on the back. "I got myself out. And you, as well. Only because we need to have a chat. Don't worry, Curly, I still hate you."

"You talk too much," Harry tells him, and Louis barks out a joyful laugh.

"That's because I have a lot of important things to say." Louis plops down in a rolling chair and scoots closer to where Harry's sitting on a tattered mattress. "But, sadly, we're not here to talk about me."

"Doesn't seem like it."

"Ha-bloody-ha. You're a right riot. Actually, I dragged you here because I have a proposal for you." Louis takes a measured silence and Harry doesn't refrain from rolling his eyes at him. "I want you to begin the process of becoming an Unconformist."

Harry wishes he could do something dramatic, like balk at Louis for saying something so absurd or just standing up and leaving the room, altogether. Instead, Harry stays rooted to his seat, mind racing with possibilities and enough questions to fire up an inquisition. Louis' eyes are a muddled shade of blue, the quickly dying sunlight filtering through the window playing games with Louis' long eyelashes and making him seem ethereal, in a way. The shadows slant across his cheekbones and make Louis seem even more powerful, electric, and for some reason, Harry feels like his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. Louis almost looks gentle, in a way. Caring.

"Have I shocked you into silence or summat? Or are you actually listening to me and thinking before you open up your massive gob?"

The illusion that Harry was slowly piecing together of Louis in his mind quickly shatters. He doesn't have time to miss it, the person that he was fabricating, because the real, annoying Louis is standing right in front of him with his legs shoulder-width apart and eyebrows furrowed. But it's there, Harry can see it, the cracks in his infrastructure. It's hidden in the twitch of his mouth and the tremor of his fingers. Louis is nervous of what Harry will tell him.

"No," Harry says finally. "Movement wants me."

Harry spares a quick glance down to his wrist, he only has four words left, and it might seem like a small amount but it still makes his stomach dip with excitement.

"You really believe that, don't you? That the Movement has chosen you because you've shown such loyalty to them?"

The way that Louis says it burns, like he's mocking Harry. He picks idly at the threadbare couch and shrugs. He isn't sure what he's supposed to say to that. And the stubborn, proud part of himself says that he doesn't have to tell Louis anything. Louis is nothing but a classless, irritating Unconformist. And Harry is above him, he shouldn't waste his time on this pint-sized twat. It's only just a matter of convincing his conscience to feel the same.

"No." Louis' voice cuts, sharp like glass. "You actually believe all of that shite.. Fuck. Harry I'm going to ask you a question, and you have to really think about it before you say or do anything."

Louis' cold fingers, calloused and rough, suddenly land under his chin. Jerking Harry upwards until he's looking right into a swirling supernova of electric blue. Harry pulls away, uncomfortable with the closeness -he's never been that close to anyone's face before, he realizes- but doesn't break the sudden stare-down that Louis initiated.

"What do you think made you seem like such an upstanding citizen to The Movement, when, in their eyes, the perfect example of a good citizen is one that does nothing to stand out from the rest?"

Louis' words resound in his mind long after he's said them. Contorting themselves in every which way until they're nothing but the syllables and letters that were drilled into his mind when he was young. He knows words, he was taught every single one in existence when he was little, he knows that they're impersonal things that are used for expression. But if words are used in the wrong way then they can lead to something that is irreversible and horrible: rebellion. That's why The Movement limits them; to keep people like Louis from obscuring good people's' minds like his own.

So, Harry stands. He wipes his hands on his trousers and makes for the door. He doesn't have to listen to this. He is somebody, he is good. Louis can't patronize him like this. He is somebody, and it's not okay for Louis to always talk down to him like this. It's really, really not.

"Harry, wait." Louis calls after him. "Wait, dammit. You're not even going to let me explain?"

Harry turns, looking down at Louis, his eyebrows furrowing downwards on their own accord.

"Explain," he demands.

"Sit down, then." Louis gestures back at the couch. "And let me grab my censors. Even I can't boost my words high enough to explain all of this."

Harry nods and sits back down on the couch.  _ Why am I doing this? _ Because he's an idiot, simply put. He should walk out while he still can, make a break for the nearest Superior and explain to them that some crazed Unconformist kidnapped him and added more words to his tracker without his permission. Which, sounds slightly insane. But he can work it out on his way out of the flat. He just needs to stand up first.

"Alright," Louis comes back with the thought censors askew on his forehead, ruffling his fringe to where he looks like a fucking woodland creature. "I only told you that.. that you're not special in the sense that you think you are because you truly aren't. None of the people that they choose to be Superiors are. They don't choose who becomes Superiors based off of their actions. They choose based off of who you are."

Harry stares at Louis blankly and Louis groans and rubs his hand across his own face.

"Don't give me that look. The cow eyed thing. You look like a pathetic kitten."

Harry doesn't say anything.

"Really? Are you just going to sit there until I spell it all out for you?" Louis huffs and sits down beside him. "Of course I bloody do. Fine. The Movement has a lot of technology and a lot of power. Which. Duh. But one thing that they do with that technology and power is make their future leaders."

"Make?" Harry echoes quietly.

"Before the Dark Times they called it genetic engineering. The matching and mating that The Movement does isn't based off of your personality and how well it could match to someone else's. It's based off of your genes and how they can manipulate them to where your offspring will have traits that The Movement sees as viable. They choose Superiors based off of which offspring received the desired trait. Not all mates are matched to be genetic matches. Sometimes The Movement groups people together just to have ordinary, subpar offspring.. Or they want to assign someone with a mate that is more likely to keep them under control and loyal to The Movement."

"So you're-" Harry's sentence is cut off by a sharp wheeze, he's ran out of his words already. Louis hands him a scribe with a sympathetic shrug. Harry writes: "So you're saying that The Movement doesn't put mates together based off of love. That they're just making us to better benefit their idea of how to run the government. And you're saying that they didn't choose me at random, but because something about my genetics appeal to them and they need me."

"Yes."

Harry shakes his head. The Movement - they wouldn't do this without telling the citizens about it. They have clearly stated that people are mated with someone that they'll get on with best. They told Harry that his actions are what makes him qualifiable for being a Superior. They wouldn't lie. These are just -this is just propaganda that the Unconformists fabricate to veer people like Harry off of the right track.

Harry stands up, he's done. He's just generally done with Louis and with his head hurting from all of the information that is being thrown at him at once and he just needs out.

"Harry," Louis calls after him. "It's true! Think about it. Why would The Movement want me so badly even if they knew who I am, what I do, unless they've known from the start that they were always going to need me? How else would any of their choices make sense? How else could you explain that they punished Gemma for what she did but they didn't punish yo-"

Harry slams the door behind him and walks towards his own flat with bleary eyed and the plan to cuddle Dusty into the late of the night and forget that this day ever happened.

//

Harry's first destination after he left Louis and Liam's flat isn't to the nearest Superior like how it probably should be. He should probably march straight to the first slightly official looking person he comes across and explain that some Unconformist took him against his will and added more words to his monitor. He should be a good citizen and tell The Movement before he gets in trouble. Instead, he somehow finds himself standing in front of his Mum's flat.

It's the same as all of the others down their road, with the pristine off-white trimming and the overuse of glass windows. The lights are on throughout the house, radiating a warm, ethereal glow that's like a beacon to him when he feels this lost. The stars are smattered across the sky, twinkling happily down over the block that Harry grew up in. But all Harry can focus on is the black sky beneath it. No one ever really pays mind to the darkness because they're too busy focusing on the prettier bits of the night. They don't really think about all of the things that the darkness holds. Nobody ever realizes that without the darkness, the bright stars wouldn't be as important.

The door to his Mum's house opens and Robin takes a step out on the small patio. He smiles silently at Harry and gestures for him to come in. Harry's mind feels numb and empty as he takes the steps towards the house, minding the shrubbery that crowds the edges of the walkway. He doesn't feel like he's truly all there at the moment, like only half of his being is present and the other half is somewhere up in the sky, trying to find it's purpose. Robin smells like his father's cologne when he passes him. Harry wonders if Robin is aware of the small things that makes Harry feel like he's a stranger that's uselessly trying to fit himself in the hole that Harry's father left.

His mother is walking through the entry hall with a scribe in her hands and a focused glaze over her eyes. She starts when she sees both Harry and Robin standing by the door and begins to smile before her eyes slide down to assess Harry, and it fades as quickly as it came. She puts the scribe on the small table that harbors photos of him and Gemma and walks closer to him. The coldness of her hands permeates through the stiff fabric of his Superior kit when she grasps to his arm and steers him up the stairs. His mum's moving with a certain brand of haste that makes cold sweat slowly trail down to the base of his spine.

They stop at the landing of the second floor and his Mum looks him desperately in the eyes, like she's trying to radiate a message that she can't express. He flicks a quick glance down towards her wrist - she only has one word left.

The house is quiet, just like how it always has been. But something about the choking silence throws him off a bit, now. Perhaps it's because he's been spending so much time around Superiors and Unconformists lately, and they seem to always be talking nonstop. He forgot about the precious value of every word when you're just a normal citizen. He forgot that he was just like his mum and used to be wary of even sparing a verbal greeting to her. The silence is disconcerting at best, and small parts of him yearn for the overwhelming myriad of sounds he's been getting accustomed to lately. But another bigger, more prevalent part of his mind is finding solace in the quiet. Like he's finally found this peace that he didn't know he has been missing and that now he can be more aware of the things around him. Harry can hear the sound of running water somewhere throughout the house, along with the small humming of the security tech moving around the house keeping watch over every room. His mum yanks him out of his reverie by pulling on his sleeve. Her eyes are searching around the hall for something, a scribe to tell him something, more than likely. Harry would ask her what's wrong, but he doesn't have any words left, either.

The sound of the door downstairs opening makes her jolt and then Harry is being shoved into one of the rooms with her. She pulls out a scribe from a desk and turns it on, and Harry is too busy watching her shoulders move while she takes several shallow inhalations of breaths that he doesn't even pay mind to which room she shoved them into. After scribbling furiously at the scribe with her stylus, she shoves the scribe into his hands and leaves him without another word.

Harry diverts his eyes down to read the message she left before it automatically erases itself,  _ "Harry. I'm very glad that you decided to visit today but a warning would've been nice. Your grandfather is coming today. Please change your kit before you come back downstairs." _

Harry furrows his eyebrows down at the scribe long after it erases itself. Why would he need to change? He looks down at his Superior kit, it is slightly wrinkled, he can give her that. But aren't civilians supposed to be proud of their Superiors? Even if they're not as impeccable as they should be? Shouldn't his mum want to show his grandfather how far Harry's come in this life, to make him proud.

Harry sighs and sits the scribe back down on the desk. If she thought it was an urgent enough matter to drag him up the stairs and tell him to change, then he probably should. He is about to pull his shirt over his head when he realizes with a start that he's not in his old room.

It's a roaring epiphany that courses through his every nerve-ending, when he takes in his surroundings to see a scene frozen in time. An overturned canister of water and a long-dead ficus plant under the shut curtains of the window. The bed is still half-unmade and there's a digital photo of him laughing while looking at her. His heart thuds and feels like it's too large for his ribcage. The aura of the room is grey, pressing against him in a choking memory that that bed is the one he used to run into after a bad dream. That he once hit his elbow so hard on history dresser that he cried for twenty minutes while she silently begged him to stop before their Mum overheard. He can almost feel her hand weaving through his curling hair while calling him 'chick' while he struggled with his pronunciation.

His mum shoved him into Gemma's room. And for some reason it hurts him a lot more than it should.

There's more than the aching bittersweet memories of his childhood with Gemma, now. Now there's the memory of traveling through the Mod X with Bressie and Ant, of watching Gemma fighting with every single drop of fire that was burning in her body just to be able to say goodbye to him and his Mum. He remembers the way her blood dripped on the white carpet, and, if he looks hard enough, he can see the small splatters. He remembers injecting Gemma in this room before carrying down her stairs while his Mum screamed and he made broken sounds from the rubble of the entry hall table. He remembers how it all felt like he was choking, how much it made him hate himself. Harry can't remember the exact time when he became completely apathetic to all of the pain he's been causing others. Maybe it was when he injected Gemma, or maybe it was when he looked Louis right in the eye and administered the highest voltage shock that he could while he was still a mere stranger to Harry.

He just knows that he used to be someone that believed in the best of people, that didn't see any reason in hurting someone else. He was innocent - he was a civilian. He wishes he didn't have to choose between Superior and Unconformist. He wanted to be back in the blissful façade of peace that he had not too long ago. Gemma's room feels like a testament to how much he has changed. He feels like Gemma is still in this room, in a way. Like she's watching him now and is baffled at the sight of him in an Unconformist suit, and for some odd reason, tears are burning at Harry's eyes, threatening to break free and let their presence be known. Harry doesn't cry though, because he fears that once he starts, he'll never be able to stop.

He leaves Gemma's room with haste, feeling like memories of her and what he's done are fluttering around the room and sticking to his skin with a burning presence, demanding to be acknowledged. He feels like he is drowning in all of the emotions that are thundering through his entire being. His lungs feel like they're slowly closing in on themselves and his throat is burning. He feels like he wants to peel off his skin and become a different person entirely. He slams her door behind him and leans against the hard wood, chest heaving and the hairs on the back of his neck standing. He can't breathe properly, why can't he just calm down and breathe?

He twists open the door to his room numbly and strips off his Superior kit, it feels like it was constricting him. He kicks it aside and crumbles to the floor, his own hands twining in his hair and pulling at it roughly while he brings his knees to his chest. He feels sick, no, he feels vile. What has he done? What happened to the old Harry and how can he get him back? What's wrong with him?

He takes a shuddering breath and stays like that for an immeasurable amount of time. He must look like a right fool, he realizes a while later, sitting in the middle of his floor in only his pants while pulling his own hair and folding in on himself like a child. He's being an idiot. He shouldn't feel this way, he shouldn't feel remorse. He's a Superior for a reason - because he's loyal to The Movement, and it's not because of his genetics or whatever that sod Louis tries to tell him - and he should be acting like one. Superiors don't have panic attacks in their childhood home. They compose themselves and act like the upstanding person they are while bottling up the sick twist of guilt to where it doesn't sit in the forefront of their mind. Harry is a Superior, and he should start acting like it.

With that thought Harry drives himself to stand up, shoving his hair off of his forehead and making his way to his own dresser. All of his clothes that he has here are too short and too tight, but he puts them on just to appease his Mum at least.

He can hear the sounds of forks scraping against plates downstairs, so he goes to the dining room once he's finished getting ready. His Grandfather is settled at the head of the dining table, with his Mum and Robin on either side. They're all eating with their heads down, shoveling at their full plates with fervor. Harry hasn't seen that much food for a very long time, seeing as The Movement has had him on a meager diet of rice and water for quite some time now.

He goes to the kitchen and scans his hand so that it could automatically file his meal plan and give him his rice and glass of water. When he returns to the dining room, all of them have their scribes out and are projecting a conversation on the wall with one hand hand while eating with the other. Harry sits down across from his grandfather and smiles when he looks at him. He grabs one of the extra scribes sat in the middle of the dining table and logs onto the conversation.

Robin and his Grandfather are talking about one of the civilians that lost her mate to an unforeseen heart attack. His mum is just clearing his Grandfather's plate when he really seems to take notice of Harry on the conversation.

_ "You look so much like Gemma," _ his grandad projects on the wall, it's directed to Harry.

And Harry, for a wild, unreasonable moment nearly wants to scream at him. He wants to slam his fork on the ground and let all of his conflicting emotions out on him. He's just ultimately sick of people always talking about Gemma, of always thinking about Gemma when he'd just like to forget about everything that has to do with her just so that he won't hurt anymore. He wants to stop being seen as an extension of her by everyone else. He's not her replacement because she wasn't valuable enough. He's just Harry.

_ I am not Gemma _ , he thinks, _ I am not her. I am my own person. _

Harry irrationally wants to tell him who Gemma really was. How she turned on the one thing that kept her safe. How she's an Unconformist and that she's bad. But she isn't, really. He knows that. Gemma is the person that he grew up looking up to. She is still the same person that dripped sunshine into his life with each smile she gave him. Gemma had this undeniable spirit that Harry loved with all of his might, and he still does love her, even if he'd rather not think about her at all. Gemma isn't bad. She was just misguided. The Unconformists just took her. They ruined her life. They tore her away from Harry before he was ready. It's all the Unconformists fault. They brainwashed her just how they brainwashed Louis. He can see that the Unconformists are conniving and evil, why can't Louis, too? Why can't Zayn? Why couldn't Gemma? Maybe it's Harry's job to not let Louis and Zayn lose everything to the lies of the Unconformist, just like Gemma. Maybe that was the grand ulterior behind them assigning him to change Louis' mind. He's supposed to save Louis, because he couldn't save Gemma. This could be how he can redeem his sister.

Harry writes, " _ No, I look like myself." _ on his scribe and finishes his plateful of rice. He pointedly ignores when his Grandfather openly sneers at him. He's not taking it back.

_ "Where is Gemma, Anne?"  _ his Grandfather writes.  _ "I miss her a lot. I've always been so proud of her." _

His Mum answers with some bullshit response about how The Movement assigned her a demanding job and that she doesn't have much time to visit anymore.

_ "You better watch that girl, Anne. She's meant to do great things." _

Harry's eyes glaze over as he watches the conversation ahead of him. He still doesn't fully understand why they never told his Grandfather that Gemma was taken away by The Movement for Unconformist activity. Maybe it's because she's always been his favorite, but something just doesn't add up in Harry's mind about the entire situation.

As the conversation pertaining to Gemma comes to a close, Harry sees one sentence that his Grandfather projects that manages to stick to his mind and confuse him to no end.

_ "I haven't seen her around the Outlands for an extremely long time." _

//

Harry looks again at the pocket scribe that is essentially just a two inch by two inch square piece of glass that stores data for him to project in the air to make sure that he didn't come to the wrong address. The house is bigger than he remembers, decked out in all glass walls on the front half that Harry can see directly into.

He scans his hand on the panel beside the front door, and a low humming sound can be heard from inside the house. Harry shifts his weight from one foot to another as he waits for the door to swing open to reveal Niall, with his dark hair flattened to his head and his plainclothes rumpled.

"Harry?" Niall's blue eyes are crinkled in confusion but he still widens the door to let him through.

Niall's flat is just as warm and homely as Harry remembered it to be. All of the digital fireplaces are roaring and there's a nest of plush blankets on one of Niall's massive couches, which means he was probably sitting in that spot watching the telly when Harry rang his door. Niall throws the blankets over the arm of the sofa and gestures for Harry to sit down. The telly is showing some programme with civilians filing into a massive Headquarters building, but it's on low volume so he can't really tell what's going on. Niall comes back in the room with a platter of biscuits and tea that he sits on the table before settling down next to Harry, face sporting an invitingly warm smile.

"What brings you here?" Niall asks. "I mean, I'm not complaining or anything. It's always nice to have some company in this monstrous flat, but you're usually not the type to just pop by uninvited. Is something wrong?"

Harry shakes his head minutely before bringing his wrist up for Niall to see that he doesn't have any words left. Niall makes a small humming sound in recognition and leaps up to return with a new edition scribe a few minutes later. He sits it in Harry's lap and nods for him to write his response on the scribe.

_ "I came to you because an Unconformist injected me with something, and when I woke up they had already added more words to my wrist. I'm not sure what to do, and I didn't know of anyone else to come with this." _

Niall stills for a moment, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he reads then rereads what Harry put on the scribe.

"Well.. Do you know who this Unconformist was?"

For an irrationally stupid moment, Harry almost lies. He nearly shakes his head no because there's this tiny voice in his mind screaming that he should protect Louis. There's no reason as to why he should feel that way; Louis is a bad person with morals alike to that of a virus (cold and uncaring of who it hurts as long as their main purpose is achieved.) But there's the caring, past-Harry bits of himself, that knows that Louis could get in severe trouble for pulling something like this. Louis could end up like Zayn, or, even worse, like Gemma if Harry's too reckless and tells the wrong Superior about Louis' Unconformist ways. The civilian in Harry screams for him to lie and act like he has no idea who added the words to him, to keep one of the people that Gemma obviously loved safe. But the Superior in him -the part that is loyal to The Movement, loyal to what is right- tells him to be honest with Niall. Niall is a good Superior, someone that he can trust. And, the rational part in his mind appeases, Niall has always told Harry that he doesn't have a hatred towards any Unconformists and actually thinks that some alright. Maybe him not lying is that bad of an option after all.

So, Harry goes with keeping to the truth and nods slowly.

"You know Louis, then?" Niall's mouth gives into a smile when Harry nods. "Tommo's ace, really. Always had a knack for that sort of thing."

_ "Tommo?" _ Harry writes, deciding to focus on the nickname instead.

"Yeah, Louis Tomlinson. I've known him since I was a wee lad. He's the only Unconformist that I know of that even knows how the wiring works with the bracelets. I'm sure he didn't muck up with adding your words, so you should be fine."

_ "You know Louis?" _

Harry can't appear to properly file that fact away in his mind. He just can't see a world where Louis and Niall could fit together and get along charitably. In Harry's mind, Niall is the undeniable Good Guy, the one who stands for what's right and has the wide, innocent eyes and sunny disposition of a person that can be trusted. And Louis is just well -- the opposite. He's aura leaks mischief from the pads of his fingers and his eyes scream rebellion and Harry just. Can't find a way to click the two of them together in a way that they wouldn't have an inevitable clash that could be heard from the farthest away Pod.

"Oh, yeah. I would actually call him one of my closest mates. My Mum and his dad were really close when were younger."

Something about Niall stiffens. His jaw twitches and his eyes cool as he rakes a hand through his mussed brown hair and stares steadfastly at the telly, even though they both know that he has no idea what's even going on on the programme. Harry doesn't call him out on it though, and knows enough about conversing with others by now to know not to push the subject any further.

"Anyways." Niall clears his throat and turns back towards Harry. "I don't think you'll get in trouble; you were going to have your word count bumped up two twenty words that day, anyways. So I don't think there's any sense in going to anyone else about this.. He did give you twenty words in all, right?"

Harry nods in affirmation.

"Great. Want a biscuit?"

Harry shakes his head, writes,  _ "Meal plan" _ in explanation.

"More for me, then." Niall smiles wolfishly and bites into the biscuit with fervor.

Harry nods and allows his mouth to give into a small smile, picking at the fraying hem of his old shirt all the while. He forgot to change back into his Superior kit when he was leaving his Mum's after the admittedly awkward dinner. He likes Niall, he really does. He's different. Even if a tad confusing. (Harry's beginning to learn that everyone is confusing. He never really noticed before that every person is like a mental exercise to figure out. It's just like everyone has all of these secrets that they wear around themselves like armor, and they don't let any of their secrets slip away from them without a fight.)

"Is that all you came here to ask?" Niall asks after a small but of the silence. "Or did you just miss my amazing company?"

Harry forces a smile and looks down at the scribe in his lap. Perhaps he could ask Niall about his other dilemma. If there's anyone that could help Harry without talking down to him, it's more than likely Niall.

" _ Actually.. I have another." _ Harry writes.  _ "In order to become a higher-ranked Superior, I have to convert Louis to being loyal to The Movement. I have no idea how to go about it, or if I even should because Louis admitted to me that he wants to convert me into an Unconformist. I'm at a loss on what to do." _

Niall reads Harry's message and let's out a low whistle, tilting his head on the back of the sofa and blowing at the hair gathered on his forehead. Harry can see Niall's mouth silently forming the words that Harry put on the scribe, like he's rereading it in his mind. He jerks up with a determined set to his mouth.

"That's a tough question, I'm not going to lie. As a Superior, I would advise you to ignore any of Unconformist ideas that Louis pushes onto you and to proceed with the mission you were assigned. But as Louis' friend, and also your friend, I feel like I should tell you that trying to convince Louis to become loyal to The Movement is a lot like trying to use a hoverboard underwater; a dead end that will only end in destruction. It's not going to happen. Sorry."

Harry nods. He thought the same, really. Louis' just too clouded in Unconformist thought to ever be salvaged. It just hurts a little more than it should when his thoughts are vocalized. He stands up from Niall's overly plush couch and wipes his hands on the scratchy fabric of his too-short trousers. He's just turning around to write down a quick thank you to Niall for letting him take up his time when Niall's hand is closing around his wrist and pulling him back down onto the couch.

"Harry, wait."

Harry settles on the couch, staring at Niall and nodding for him to go on and say whatever he needs to say.

"I also should mention that... The Movement wouldn't assign you something unless they truly believed that you could accomplish what they ask of you. In that way, I do believe that you can convert Louis. It's just going to be very hard. You're going to have to be persistent, though, because Tommo won't give in easily."

Harry nods, and an infinitesimal flame of hope ignites in his chest and licks up through his bones. He can do this, he can make everyone proud and be able to make something out of himself that isn't related to Gemma. He can convert Louis to a loyal Superior, he knows it.

"Also.. You need to be careful. The Movement is going to be watching you extremely closely as you get closer to Louis. And you don't need to give them a reason to believe that he's swaying your beliefs in any way."

" _ Thank you _ ." Harry writes on the scribe.

Niall smiles heartily and gives Harry a jovial pat on the back, "No problem. Now, do you want to watch some shite telly about reforming Unconformists with me for a while?"

Harry smiles, and says yes on the scribe. They stay in a relative silence as the rest of the showing comes on. Niall turns up the volume with control panel and a narrator drones on about how they took past Unconformists that exhibits a great loyalty to The Movement after years of their punishment and rehabilitate them so that they can return to society. Harry would be lying if he said that he didn't keep his eyes peeled for a sign of Gemma in the throng of the silenced Unconformists.

//

Harry doesn't return to his flat until well past the sunset, and he is absolutely exhausted. Dusty is mewling as soon as he enters the threshold, and he feeds her before plopping down on the couch and letting out a long exhale that he didn't realize he's been holding.

Harry kicks off his shoes and leans his head against the wall while trying to regain his breath. His mind won't stop working over all of the things that keep reverberating in his head, and his subconscious is moving nonstop to try to make sense of it all. He just wants a break. To hide away in his flat with Dusty curled up under his arm and all of the stresses of this world to slowly flit away. He wants to find who he is again, to reconnect with his roots and to stop hating himself so much.

But that's a lot easier said than done, so he gives in to what he's supposed to and shoves some moist food into Dusty's bowl before plopping down on his ratty sofa.

Dusty nibbles at her food calmly, with her long tail swishing slightly back and forth with pure joy. At least she hasn't changed. She is and always will be Dusty, the one thing that he loves the most in this world. She's all of the innocence and naivety that Harry wants to bask forever in. He loves this damned cat.

Harry turns on the telly and a tribute to the Pod that was cleared out by the Unconformist attack is playing. Harry pouts at it, thinking about all of the people that died without reason for this war. He's angry that they had to die for this big rivalry between The Movement and the heedless Unconformists. It's not right, simply put.

He stays like that for hours, watching telly and letting Dusty cuddle into his stomach while absently patting at her downy fur. It's well past midnight when Harry finally lifts from his small trance. And when he does, his subconscious has already made a decision.

So, Harry puts Dusty in her small basket before leaving his own flat. He doesn't realize that he didn't slip on shoes until it was too late. He's lifting up his hand to knock on the door when he notes with a smile that all of his words have reloaded already and he has 20 now.

Liam opens the door, shirtless, with a closed fist rubbing at his eyes. One of his eyebrows piques up in question at Harry.

"Louis." Harry says curtly, and Liam fish mouths before nodding and bidding Harry in by widening the door.

Liam disappears into the darkness of the flat, but Louis comes out a few minutes later. He's in a massive jumper that reaches past his hands and tight pants, and they're all hysterically paired with some wildly printed socks that goes to his mid-calve. He looks so small and delicate this way, with the leaking moonlight from the open window cutting his sharp features into more prominent shapes, and his downy fringe matted on one side of his head while his tiny mouth opens around a small yawn. He looks like the kind of person that you'd fold up and keep in your pocket for when you are having a bad day and need some sunshine in your life. Louis' obviously too tired to be pulling off his 'mischievous, jaded demeanor that can't be fucked with', and that's probably a good thing. Harry feels exponentially less threatened by someone that's sporting sweater paws, so maybe he can actually pull this off.

"Is that you, Curly?" Louis' voice grumbles scratchily, disturbing the small blanket of peace in the flat. "What're you doing?"

Harry nods and grabs his scribe and projects something that he saved in his drafts while watching the telly.

_ "Hello, Louis. About you wanting to convert me; I decided I would agree to you making an effort as long as you agree to one of my terms as well. You have to let me try to convert you to being loyal to The Movement as well." _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are appreciated! hmu on [tumblr](http://voguelourry.tumblr.com)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: character death!! (not louis or harry, it's towards the end, but you can message me on tumblr if you want a summary.)

**_LOUIS' POV_ **

Harry Styles is pigeon toeing in the middle of his living room, bare foot. His stupidly-massive mouth is pressed into a flat line and his brows are set, and Louis is so tired that the remnants of his dreams are still stuck to his eyelids. Liam is still moving around somewhere in the flat, Louis can hear the telltale sounds of his socked feet slapping against the floor. It has to be bloody well past arse o'clock in the morning and he has half a mind to snap Harry's scribe in half and tell him to come back at a half-decent time but his green eyes tell of a certain brand of urgency that roots Louis' feet to the floor and forces him to keep his sleep-caked mouth shut.

It takes him a few more seconds than it should to realize that Harry is projecting a message from his scribe. " _ Hello, Louis. About you wanting to convert me; I decided I would agree to you making an effort as long as you agree to one of my terms as well. You have to let me try to convert you to being loyal to The Movement as well."  _ That's what he projected. With the stoic grammar of a brainwashed Civilian, born and raised. The kind of lifeless grammar that pisses him off to no end.

Louis drags his socked foot over the buckled hardwood of his living room floor, can make the shape of one of his dirty socks lying not a few feet from where he stands. Liam will probably nag him to clean up after himself when the sky is actually awake. He's so bloody tired that he can hardly make sense of whatever sort of pabulum confrontations that The Movement has spoon-fed their followers when it comes to handling the Unconformists. He's just aware enough of his expression to know to adamantly not look at Harry dead on. The kid is lethal with his seaglass eyes and determined expression. His innocence and charisma can draw you to show all of your cards without even being aware of it, and Louis knows that that's why The Movement wants him so badly. Why everyone wants him badly enough that they're risking their footing in this war. Louis can't risk letting him see the look of disappointment on his own face. Harry's blissfully unaware of the world that's falling apart around him and he's under strict orders that that is the way that he should be kept. But Louis is such an idiot, is the thing. He thought that if he tried to reveal to Harry the flaws of the system that he supports, then he would be on board with being converted. He went into his mission too cockily, and Paul will probably have his arse on a platter for it. He was stupid enough boast that he'd probably have the last Styles on their side by the end of the month. Which was an irrevocably dumb thing to say. If there was one thing that Louis was reinforced over and over again since he was young, it was that he should never be too sure about anything. He should've known that Harry wouldn't just give into Louis as easily as he hoped. As much as Louis swears he can't see it, the kid is still a Styles. Hard-headed with a resolve that could brave the angriest of storms. Even more so, he is Gemma's brother and Louis should've known that the kid wouldn't lay down without putting up a good fight. Louis' an idiot for thinking that this would be an easy thing to do, because obviously all of the groundwork that Gemma put in to converting Harry was for naught.

Louis lets his disappointment in himself and slight irritation towards Harry fall behind a shield of armor, deciding to sort himself out when he's by himself and when his limbs don't feel like they're still pressed into his soft bed with Liam snoring loudly into his ear. He pushes his hair off of his forehead and looks him squarely in his eyes that have circles beneath them.

"You write on a scribe like you have a stick up your arse, Curly."

The quick succession of shocked and confused expressions that shadow over Harry's painfully open face would be hysterical if Louis had a strong cuppa in his system. He doesn't, though, so he waits impatiently in the middle of his own flat for Harry to pull his shit together and write something down on his monstrosity of a scribe.

_ "You don't understand --" _

"I understand what you're trying to do." Louis states simply, plopping down on his couch. "Convince me that The Movement stands for what is right and help me realize the error of my rebellious ways all so that you can appease The Movement and use me as a step to rise higher in their elitist ranks."

Harry visibly fumes in the darkness of the flat for a few moments then scribbles away at his scribe again, projecting:  _ "Why do you say that? Is this your way of saying that you're trying to convert me just to be more powerful, too? " _

Louis wets his lower lip with his tongue. "Yes, I am. But that's the difference between the Unconformists and The Movement: we acknowledge the fact that we are dicks."

_ "The difference is that The Movement is good."  _ Harry sits down on the couch, too, now. He is as far away from Louis as possible but he can still catch small hints of what Harry smells like (fresh grass and something even sweeter yet undetectable, like innocence). " _ What does Your People even stand for? Do you even know of anything that's wrong with how we live? Or are you just rebelling for the sake of it? Do you have any idea how many lives you all have taken?" _

"Good? The Movement is anything other than good. They strip everyone of what makes them unique. They dehumanize us and scream about this perfect world that they've created when in reality they're slowly killing off our entire race. If we can't communicate, then how can we continue to progress intellectually? The Movement won't be happy until we've forgotten that we even have feelings."

_ "Feelings and expression are what nearly killed everyone before." _

"Only because the ones that they trusted to protect their ways to express themselves oppressed them."

_ "Are you kidding me? They were so tetchy with what they felt that they saw someone disagreeing with them as a good enough reason to kill them. The people were killing each other and The Movement saved them." _

"That's what they say but we don't know the truth. Nobody knows the truth because all of the people that lived to see the Great War happen are dead. The Movement didn't allow a way for it to be recorded from any other viewpoint than theirs, so now we only have half of the story."

_ "We don't need the other half. The Movement wouldn't lie to the Civilians."  _ Harry projects, and Louis spares a thought to think about how deeply They have their claws sunk into this poor boy.  _ "They stand for what's right. Honesty." _

"How fucking naïve can you be?" Louis thunders. "How do you know that we don't stand for what we believe is right, too?"

Louis must have yelled quite loudly, because Liam comes stumbling into the living area with a worried tilt to his eyebrows. Harry freezes like he was just caught doing something illegal, and Liam roots to the opening of the living room with a frown so deeply set into the corners of his mouth that Louis feels guilty. He knows that Liam is confused, that he has all of the pieces of the puzzle to fit together what Louis' deal is but just isn't sure about how to put it all together. It makes Louis' stomach turn that he's grateful that Liam can't figure out his secret. It's just easier for Liam - and himself - this way. Harry must take Liam's entrance as a cue for him to leave, because he rises off of the couch with his scribe clutched tight in his hands.

The kid looks absolutely mad. His already dumbly wide eyes are the size of saucers, and his pulling on his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger nervously. Louis has to remind himself that this kid isn't Gemma, and he needs to stop treating him like her. It won't be as simple to convert Harry as it was to turn Gemma, so in the moment that it takes to stand and follow Harry to the door, Louis decides to take a different course with the kid: indulgence.

"Fine." Louis whispers and Harry frights, with a great jerk, nearly falling over himself. "I'll agree to your terms. You can try to convert me, but I'm warning you that you'll be fighting a losing battle."

The smile that takes over Harry's face could power a million solar panels at once. But it disappears quickly when he retreats back to his scribe.

_ "That's all I ask for; for you to let me try." _ Harry opens the door after the projection times out but pauses in the threshold.  _ "Wait,"  _ he projects.  _ "But how can we differentiate between bad and good when both sides are fighting for what they believe?" _

"That's up for you to decide, Curly." Louis murmurs and guides Harry out of his flat with a gentle hand on his lower back.

He closes the door behind Harry and risks a glance at his wrist; he only has fifty words left for the day and the sun's not even up. Ace.

Liam clears his throat from where he's still in the living room, jerking Louis out of his reverie. The sun is starting to peak over the horizon, and is filling the flat with a low, golden light that's dewy and presses indents of an early morning aura into the worried lines surrounding Liam's eyes. The lighting makes him look younger than he is, and for a second Louis is traveling back in time and is meeting Liam face to face for the first time. He remembers how Liam's palms were sweating nervously and the haphazard way that his hair laid across his forehead. He was terrified of Louis and loyal to The Movement to a fault, and for some reason Louis actually didn't hate him as much as he thought he would when he first learned that he was being mated to some kid with a perfect reputation named Liam Payne.

Liam silently leaves the living room and Louis follows, tracing Liam's larger footprints with his own and letting drowsiness slip back over him. Perhaps he can get a few more hours of sleep before he leaves for the Outlands.

Liam is already laying in their shared bed when Louis enters the bedroom. His breathing is this slow cadence that he has became to associate with home and the sheets are soft when he slips under them. He digs his elbow into the mattress and angles his body up so that he can stare at Liam's face for a moment. Louis remembers the first night that they spent together, the way that they were both too nervous to touch each other and how Liam fell asleep facing him, with his lax mouth resting in a pout and an open palm settled in the middle of the bed, like he was searching for something to hold onto. Louis knew that he would never care for Liam as much as he wanted him to from the start, but that didn't stop him from trying. Louis might not feel the great love that all of the Elders at the Outlands talk about, but he still feels something for him. So, Louis does the same thing that he has done each time that he lays by Liam to fall asleep -- he grabs his hand and tries to fool his heart into believing that he's in love with his mate.

\\\

Louis wakes up to an empty bed and the realization that he overslept on what is arguably the most important day of his life. It's a blur of rummaging for clothes and tricking the kitchen system to allow him a cup of tea on his meal plan before he slides out of the flat, shouldering his messenger bag and feeling in his pocket for his collapsible hover board. Mostly everyone in the building is already at their assigned occupations so he isn't stopped by anyone on his way out of the door.

The hoverboard trek to the abandoned HQ building is a quick one, thankfully, and he can see Zayn's half shaved head on the ground from a few kilometers away.

"Is the TDS ready?" Louis asks him upon landing, stomping down on the collapse button with his foot on the hover board. Zayn nods silently.

The Transportation Dispatch Ship (TDS) is empty, so Louis supposes that he and Zayn are the only Unconformists that are going to the Outlands at this hour. He sits in the pilot's seat by Zayn, reaching into his messenger bag and pulling out two pairs of thought sensors.

Even with the sensors on, Zayn is mostly silent for the entirety of their ride. There's something off about him today, it's evident in the way that his mouth is pursed tightly and how he keeps staring intently at anything but Louis. For some reason it makes the typically quick trek on the TDS move even faster. It isn't until the familiar buildings that make the outskirts of Outlands territory that Zayn finally begins to project his thoughts.

"You know what you're doing today, right?"

Louis nods, "I do."

"And you're not.. scared, or anything?"

"I have no reason to be scared."

"That's not what I meant," Zayn slides his hand through what's left of his hair. "I mean.. Do you feel guilty, or summat. About what you're going to do today."

Louis presses his hands forward against the steering wheel to land the TDS on the small barren strip between the main Unconformist Headquarters. He resolutely avoids making eye contact with Zayn and forces himself to tamp down all of his inner emotions.

"There's no reason to feel guilty, either."

He unbuckles his seatbelt to see Zayn staring at him dead on with a dissatisfied crease between his eyebrows. Louis automatically feels chastised for being the reason why Zayn looks like that, but he can't quite change the situation that they're currently in, no matter how hard he tries.

"I wish Gemma was here." Zayn says, the  _ 'because she could talk you out of this'  _ remains unsaid but Louis still hears it.

Louis nods, because of course he wishes the same, and presses the button to open the lift so that they can leave the TDS. He can feel more than hear when Zayn follows him off of the ship.

Paul is already waiting for them on the ground, waving at them. When they're close enough, Paul slaps a meaty hand on Louis' back excitedly.

"You ready to change the world, lads?" Paul asks in his unique brogue, and Louis nods uneasily. "Thought so. Zayn, you can follow Luke to the control center and see if you can help out any there. Louis, you follow me. We're going to the testing site."

They both nod, and Paul is already walking away. Louis starts to follow him but Zayn stops him with a hand twisted in his jacket at the last second.

"We don't have to go through with this," Zayn projects lowly. "Neither of us do."

"You're acting like this is some big deal when it's really not. The model will only be used if there's an emergency or an open threat. It may never be used at all. There's nothing to worry about, Zee."

"I have a bad feeling about all of this," Zayn tells Louis, his eyes still downcast, before he walks away. Louis doesn't have the courage to say that he has a bad feeling, too.

Louis has to half-run to catch up with Paul and his stupidly long legs and when he does, Paul side-eyes Louis with an odd look.

"What was all of that about?" Paul asks.

"Nothing." Louis lies easily. "He's just worried that something might malfunction. He doesn't want me to get hurt."

"Typical with you two." Paul laughs, buying it. "Sometimes I swear that you two are Fated."

"No, no, it's nothing like that. We've just been friends for quite a long time." Louis shakes his head quickly, he has come to terms with the fact that he's not Fated to be with someone -not like how the Elders talk about- a long time ago. And he most definitely knows that's he's not Fated with Zayn, especially after the one awkward kiss that they shared in the Outlands back when they were fifteen. "I'm just all he has left, is all."

Paul makes a grave sound of agreement and opens the door to the main building.

"It's a shame that The Movement does that to all of us. That they kill the ones we love just because we believe in what's right."

Louis nods because he agrees. No one understands the anger that comes from The Movement's ways better than he does.

There's already a panel of Unconformists in various states of tattered dress circled around a table when they enter the building. It's a warehouse of sort, with grey floors and high ceilings. The only thing that tells of the building being one that the Unconformists use as an official government building is the massive panel of tech on one wall and the glass cube that Louis doesn't feel like looking too closely at just yet.

"Tomlinson," an overly tall man greets Louis, he's wearing one of the sensors that Louis gave Paul. "We've been expecting you. How did the TDS trip treat you?"

"It was better than a train." Louis says and the ones with sensors projects laughter while the others smile at him. "So, what did you all call me here for?"

A woman speaks up this time, "We want to do a trial run with your newest tech, and if there are any flaws with it, for you to fix it. And -- if you don't mind -- could you explain the method on how to use the tech to all of us?"

"Explain it? I thought that you lot wouldn't need the Intel and instructions on the tech until later this year." Louis looks at Paul, the only familiar face in the room with confusion. "I thought that this wasn't an urgent matter, just a back up plan."

"It isn't an urgent matter, Louis. We just want.. assurance. We don't know when The Movement is going to strike against us again, and we need to be prepared. We don't want another Pod R debacle, do we?" Paul explains. "I mean, you saw the dissent that was thrown at us as a result. It's no secret about what happened to Zayn as a result of it."

Louis wants to argue, because something about this just doesn't feel right. But there is essentially nothing for him to argue, so he says nothing and just nods instead.

"Alright. I can't properly test anything unless --"

"We have that covered," the woman says, and half of the group diverts their eyes to the aforementioned glass cube. "Are we ready to get this started, then?"

Louis gulps, nods. "Sure."

One of the men without a thought sensor steps forward, holding out the small piece of tech that Louis spent countless hours on mastering until his hands started shaking and Liam dragged him away from his workroom until he fell into a fitful sleep in which he still thought of ways to better the device. The one thing that he didn't spend hours think about, though, was what the device was going to be used for. He shifts the tech in his hands and walks towards the glass, inhaling a steadying breath and looking at the person that was sitting inside the cube.

"She's their propaganda coordinator." Someone supplies. "The mastermind behind the slogan 'The Unconformists represent the poison in our society.' We found her staking out our territory."

"I don't need a briefing on her." Louis says aloud, gruffly.

He feels like he already knows too much. He knows that her eyes are wide and scared and that she has a bruise blossoming on her left cheek. He knows that her mouth is silently forming the world 'help' over and over and that her pristine Superior kit is torn at the trousers. She looks like a frightened animal, like an innocent. And for a second he doesn't think that he can bring himself to do this. And then he remembers that everyone's watching him. He remembers Gemma. He remembers Lottie. And then he reminds himself to be emotionally detached from the girl on the other side of the glass. The Superiors deserve what they get, especially after all that they've done.

"Firstly, has the microchip been planted in her system?" Louis asks the room at large.

"She digested it with the water like how you suggested, yes."

"Good. The first thing that I'm going to do is scan my thumb print onto the face of the device to assure that I am pre-approved to be handling this. We can go to the systems mainframe to approve anyone else's fingerprint, too, if needed." Louis holds up the tech while he scans his thumb. "After my scan is cleared, then I can control not only this device but any other models of the same tech."

"And now, I enter the code to activate the microchip. Once the microchip is activated, it should be evident."

Louis slides his fingers across the touch panel of the tech, entering the code 0-4-2-3. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes until he hears the room gasp at large. When he looks up, he's staring right into the bloodshot eyes of the Superior trapped in the cube. She's clutching at her throat and her mouth is open and releasing silent screams. Her chest is heaving with every breath and her cheeks are turning a frightening shade of deep red. Louis watches as her knees buckle beneath her and she falls to the floor.

"What's happening to her?" Someone asks. Louis tears his eyes away from the girl to see that half of the group scribbling away at their scribes, taking notes. "Can you explain her reaction to the activation of the microchip?"

Louis nods and turns back to the glass cube. She is lying on the ground completely now, body convulsing with one hand reaching up. Reaching towards Louis. Half of him wants to save her. He's not a murderer. This girl probably has a family, a mate. A group of people waiting for her to return home from work so that they can have dinner and talk about the mundane things that Civilians talk about. This girl has a life and Louis is watching as it slowly withers away. He's a murderer and he wants to stop this. He can't kill her. His hands are fumbling over the tech but a massive hand holds on to his wrist steadily.

"Are you alright, Tomlinson?" Paul asks, his eyes are steely and silently warning Louis to not fuck all of this up.

"Yeah.. Yeah." Louis says aloud.

He isn't a murderer -- he's making things right. This girl played a hand in the deaths of some of the people that are closest to him. She contributed to the hatred that is thrown at his people every time they reveal themselves. The Unconformists have had to watch their step in order to not risk their lives for decades now, and it's time for the Superiors to have the same dread coil deeply in their stomachs. Louis can do this, he can kill her and several others if he just stops being an idiot and reminds himself to stay detached. Louis takes a few breaths and slides his hands off of the tech, passing it off to Paul. As long as the girl remains as a white suit in his mind and nothing more, then he can do this.

"After the microchip activates, it sends transmitters to the brain that manipulate its activity. It fools the brain into cutting off the subject's air supply. Shortly after activation pneumothorax occurs, which is where the lungs collapse on themselves and the subject can't breathe any longer. Since the transmitters are fooling the brain into not sending aide to the failing respiratory system, the process for the subject to die only takes a maximum of thirty minutes."

The girls lips and fingertips are turning blue, and her mouth isn't moving anymore. She looks more like a corpse than anything else. Louis turns away from her, there's nothing more to see.

"According to the way that she behaved to the activation, though, the maximum might just be fifteen minutes. It depends on the health habits of the subject." Louis explains.

A man without sensors steps forward and projects a message from his scribe, "Impressive work, Tomlinson. Did you receive any help when it comes to the anatomical side of this tech's abilities?"

Louis shakes his head, "No, sir. When I was younger, my father taught me about anatomy first. He always said that we can't understand the mechanics of technology unless we are fluent in the mechanics of ourselves."

"A wise man Troy was." Paul attributes. "And a wise son that he raised. Are there any other questions for Mr. Tomlinson?"

"Are there any technical difficulties that you sighted during this trial?" A woman projects.

"Not any that I could find, no."

"And how many of these devices are in our possession?"

"Louis gave me fifty thousand, and the blueprints for the tech, as well." Paul answers.

"Does The Movement have this tech in their supply, too?"

"No." Louis answers truthfully. "I only gave this tech to the Unconformists, because you are the only ones that I trust with it."

"Right. Thank you for your cooperation, Tomlinson. Paul, you can escort him out now."

Paul pats Louis on the back and makes his way for the door, and Louis follows him. He chances a glance back when he's closing the main door behind him, and he sees the group converged around the table and the girl in the cube lying completely still. He feels like the entire situation is out of of his hands when the heavy door slams shut behind him. Paul is staring at him when he turns back, with his hands in his pockets and eyes studying Louis intently.

"What's eating you, kid?" Paul asks.

Louis sighs and slides his sweaty fringe off of his forehead. What isn't bothering him, would be a better question to ask in reality.

"The tech... it'll only be used in retaliation, right? Like it's just in case if an emergency happens."

"Why are you so worried about that, Louis?"

"I.. I suppose that I'm just scared that this tech could start a war."

"A war has already started, Louis. It's been going on for a very long time."

Louis nods, Paul's not wrong. They're outside now, and the clouds are heavy with the threat of rain. He can see Zayn leaving the door of the other building. He spares a thought to all of the people back in the pods that might get killed because of Louis. It seems like all of the innocents' deaths are because of him, lately. He's not sure how much longer he can harbor the burden of it.

"Just.. Will you please warn me before they're activated. So that I can make sure that certain people are safe."

"I can assure you that we won't kill any of our own, Louis."

Louis remedies his face into a look of relief, but that wasn't the answer he was looking for. He wants to at least be able to assure that the few civilians that have wheedled their way into his heart - namely Liam and Niall,and yes, maybe even Harry - were going to be safe from the chaos that he's spearheading.

"You're not worried about that mate of yours, are you?" Paul asks.

"No, no. Of course not. I'm just nervous that someone might make the wrong move and I might be the reason why one of our own gets killed."

"You can't think like that, Tomlinson." Paul instructs and then Zayn joins them with a wane smile.

"I'll try not to." Louis says and grabs Zayn's wrist, yanking him towards the TDS. "See you soon, Paul." Louis waves and then ducks into the TDS.

"How'd it go?" Zayn asks once the door has closed.

"Awful." Louis deadpans. Zayn's arms raise and he's being pulled into a tight embrace. Zayn smells like cinnamon and their past. "I hate myself so much."

"It's okay," Zayn whispers.

Zayn is too skinny, as always, and Louis' cheek presses into his collar bone painfully. It all feels so familiar that a part of Louis' chest aches. He yearns for a time when it was just him, Zayn, and Gemma against the world. When they didn't have to witness deaths with total apathy. But the simple fact is that he can't go back. He just has to revel in the now. He holds tighter to Zayn's shirt and stands there, but he doesn't let himself cry. He hasn't let himself cry in such a long time. Instead, he just waits for the typical numbness to settle back in so that he can continue to act like he isn't living in the horrific world that he can't escape.

"No," Louis breathes into Zayn's shirt. "It's really not."

//

Louis is nursing a massive stress-induced headache when the door to the flat bursts open. Liam is sweating profusely and his usually straight-tie is completely askew. His knees buckle as soon as he locks eyes with Louis and he cradles his head in his hands and let's out a massive sigh of relief.

"Liam.." Louis says hesitantly, standing up from the couch and resting a hand on Liam's shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Liam shocks Louis by wrapping his meaty arms around Louis' legs and dragging him down onto the floor into an embrace. Louis returns it, rubbing at Liam's broad back placatingly while he cries. He's genuinely confused on what has him so torn up, but he doesn't feel like Liam is quite at the place to be asked questions just yet.

"Thought you were dead." Liam says after a while, sniffling into Louis' neck and grasping tightly to the thin material.

"What... Liam why would you say that?" Louis' hand pauses from where he was tracing circles into his back. "Love, what happened?"

Liam takes a shuddery breath and detaches from their embrace. He stands and paces towards the telly, turning it on and then sitting down on the couch, looking at Louis with wide eyes until he gets the message and sits down beside him. Liam slots himself tightly against Louis' side and grabs his hand tightly. Louis indulges him and looks at the television.

"An open attack has shaken the entire civilization as the details of the Pod N massacre are released. Late this afternoon, a distress signal was released from Pod N, and when dispatch from neighboring communities flooded in, terror shook the usually stoic Superiors."

A cold wave of dread floods through Louis' bones, pressing up against his lungs until he feels like he can't breathe. Pod N.

"Mum," Louis says aloud, because that's all he can say.

His sisters, brother, and mum all live on the line between Pod N and and Pod O. There's a strong chance that they could've been hit by this 'attack', too. Louis presses his hand into Liam's clenching with all of his might as pictures of dead bodies scattered about the streets of Pod N are shown.

"This is the second attack that the Unconformists have launched on civilians. It is horrifying and actions against the Unconformists shall be taken immediately. A march paying tribute to all of those who have fallen in Pod N will be taking place in one hour in the communes of all pods across our civilization." The narrator states. "The cause of death in the thousands of Civilians and Superiors seems to be respiratory failure. More in depth searches for exactly how this massacre has taken place are undergoing. It is advised by The Movement that everyone proceed as normal, and if you site any suspicious behavior in anyone around you, to please inform your nearest Superior. We want to contain the Unconformists so that they will no longer pose as a threat to our otherwise peaceful, utopian society."

He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks to see that Liam is holding out a scribe towards him. He takes it in his own hand and reads over it.

_ "I was so worried once the news came into our tracking squadron. I knew that you were going out of the pod on business today, and that sometimes you visit your mum after and I just didn't know if you were hit or not. Lou, I've never been so terrified of losing someone before in my life." _

"Oh, Liam." Louis turns and throws his arms over his shoulders again. They hug tightly, until it feels like their hearts are so close that they've melded together and they now share the same beat. "I'm okay. Everything is okay."

Liam shuffles for his scribe again, projects,  _ "But what about your family? We should watch the ceremony just to make sure that no one we know was killed by this attack." _

Louis nods and grips tightly to Liam's bicep. He holds onto him like Liam's the only one anchoring him to this Earth. He doesn't want to think about the attack too much. Or else he might drive himself mad. What if it is all his fault? What if he did kill his family? The amount of blood that might be on his hands by the end of the night is astronomical. The all-too-familiar panic of losing every sense of moral is crawling up his throat again. He isn't like this. He isn't a cold-hearted murderer. He isn't the kind of lad to sit around and watch the flames lick the walls and destroy everything in sight just because of a fire he started. He feels like he should be doing something but in reality there is nothing to even try to do. So, he just holds Liam's hand and nods.

The hour before the march seems to drag on for forever. Louis sits stoically in one of the wicker chairs that's sat in their postage-stamp sized balcony, staring at the barren streets of the pod. He hasn't seen a single hoverboard flit through the air since the announcement, and the typical radio silence that appears to always be blanketing the society is amplified tenfold. Even the birds don't seem to be chirping, like they're aware of the tragedy that has occurred and are paying respect to the people that are suffering.

Liam sits in the chair beside him, laying a heavy blanket over the legs and pushing a tray that has two steaming teacups on it towards Louis. Louis accepts one with a hint of a smile. He can't deny that even when the world around him is shit, he lucked out in getting a really good mate.

The march begins with the solemn drone of a single bell. The bell continues, low and melancholic as several Superiors walk down the streets of the pod shoulder to shoulder, projecting the names and faces of the ones that have fallen. In the beginning Louis keeps his eyes peeled, searching for anyone that he might know. And as it continues to stretch on, a terrible feeling of dread is inhabiting the pit of his stomach. He can't finish the cuppa that Liam gave him and is wringing his hands nervously. When the last names finally reach the letter D, Louis finally accepts the fate of this attack.

_ "I can assure you that we won't kill any of our own, Louis." _ is what Paul promised him the other day, and he definitely wasn't lying. Because the Unconformists launched Louis' tech on The a Movement, but they didn't kill any of their own people. They didn't kill any of Louis' family.

He's never felt so elated about that one fact in his life. His girls, his mum, and Ernie are alright. He didn't kill them. He leans his head back on the wicker chair and wills his heart rate to slow down. This is the only thing that he should focus on, that his family made it out alive. He shouldn't think about all of the innocents that he killed. They're all just faceless casualties in war, Louis reminds himself. Perhaps one day he'll believe it.

After the march is done, Liam drags Louis to the bed and burrows himself in Louis' arms even though he's much too tall and burly to fit properly. Once Liam's breathing has steadied out, Louis presses a gentle kiss to the crown of his head and tamps down the guilt that's thrumming through his veins. Liam rubs against the line of his jaw in his sleep, and all Louis can think of before he dozes off is I am the cause for the deaths of up to fifty thousand people.

//

Louis rolls the cuffs of his Superior kit on his wrists and frowns down at himself. He is so bloody tired, he hardly even spent a full hour asleep and it's getting to him. He's most definitely not in the mood to be stuck around Superiors for the entire day. All he wants to do is hide in a dark room and act like the past few weeks have never happened.

Liam whisks through the living area and presses a chaste kiss to his lips, "Bye, Lou." He says and Louis tells him goodbye, too.

He's already running late by the time he's sliding his messenger bag over his shoulder. He's practically sprinting out of the building when he hears a woman call his name from down the sidewalk.

"Mr. Tomlinson," a woman with her red hair pinned back and a short stature says, walking towards him. She's a Superior. "Mr. Tomlinson, may I have a word, if you please."

Louis furrows his eyebrows and adjusts the shoulder strap of his messenger bag.

"I'm sorry what --" Louis' cut off by a sharp pain in his shoulder that has him falling to the ground.

"I'm sorry Mr. Tomlinson, I didn't seem to introduce myself properly. I am Tori, and you're coming with me to HQ."

She presses an injector into his forehead and the world fades into a myriad of grey hues before he gives into the pain and blacks out.

. . .

Louis wakes up to his wrists tied behind his back and a Superior frowning down at him. So, naturally, he swings his leg out and kicks the Superior swiftly in the groin. The man hunches over and grunts and Louis looks around the room, assessing his surroundings. He's in a Movement holding cell, for sure, he can tell from the nauseating overuse of white.

"Fucking Tomlinson," the Superior spits. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

"You kidnapped me. That gives me the right to kick you in the nads." Louis shrugs as best as he can.

"You killed fifty thousand civilians and Superiors. That gives us the right to kidnap you."

"I didn't kill anybody," Louis lies easily.

"Don't try to play innocent, Louis. You kill people. That's what you do. You kill people and walk away unscathed because everyone's too scared to berate you. What you're doing goes against The Movement's values."

"The Movement's values? You lot killed people, too." Louis tests the restraints around his wrists to no avail. "This is war, simply put, and people are going to die. It's best if you just accept that."

"Is that what you really believe?" The Superior asks, his eyes searching Louis'.

Louis nods, and a dreadful smirk spreads across the Superior's face.

"Bring him in," The Superior says loudly and a massive sliding door briskly opens.

Fear seeps through Louis' bones. Something's off with this situation. It almost seems like they're trying to.. severely punish him or something. Maybe they're trying to punish him using someone else. His subconscious hopes with all of its might that the him that they're talking about isn't Zayn.

It isn't. The man that they drag through the door most definitely isn't Zayn. His throat closes in on itself and all of his hope plummets in a free fall.

_ "Liam." _

Liam is bruised and bleeding with a cut lip. His eyes are scrunched shut in pain and two Superiors are dragging him into the room like a limp doll. He doesn't even seem to hear Louis, and it takes him a while to notice the silencer that's standing starkly on the left side of his neck, covering the birthmark that Louis used to kiss in passing.

"No," Louis looks at the Superior fruitlessly. "He's innocent. He's the most loyal person to The Movement that I have ever seen. He doesn't deserve this."

"You better be careful there, Tomlinson." The Superior paces to stand in front of Liam, smiling darkly. "It almost seems like you care for the poor lad."

"Of bloody course I do! I've been living with him for the past five years." Louis' voice softens when looks at Liam. "How can you not care about him?"

"According to your accomplices, you shouldn't care for him at all."

"I care for him, yes. Just not in the way that I'm supposed to in your idealist ways." Louis explains.

"Then you shouldn't mind." The Superior traces a hand over Liam's jaw before clamping down on his neck, Liam let's out a sickening choking sound. "It shouldn't matter if we kill him right in front of you. After all, he's just another causality in this war that Your People are so set on having."

"Please.. Don't kill him." Louis whispers. "Anything but that."

"What makes his life.." The Superior yanks Liam by the hair harshly. "Any more significant than any of the other lives you have taken?"

Louis can't answer, because he doesn't know how to. He just knows that Liam -- beautiful, perfect, innocent Liam -- is slowly waning before him. There's blood everywhere, and his body is shaking with every breath he takes. He doesn't Liam to die. He has to do everything he can to save him.

"Take mine instead." Louis says. "Kill me and let him go. Don't punish him for something he has no idea about."

"I'm sorry, but it just doesn't work like that."

"Please, I'll do anything. I will leave the Unconformists if you'd just let him go."

The Superior pauses for a moment, and he begins to walk away from Liam. Louis lets out a tiny sigh of relief. Maybe he can do it, perhaps he can --

"Do you really think that I'm that stupid?" The Superior thunders at Louis before pivoting on his foot and turning to Liam.

He pulls out a gun and shoots Liam three times in the chest before Louis can even blink. It takes him a moment to realize the inhumane shriek that reverberates through the room is his own.

Blood is blossoming through Liam's shirt and the Superior is picking Louis up from the chair and punching him hard in the stomach, but he can't feel it. He can't feel anything.

"You've been untouchable for too long, Tomlinson," The Superior spits and throws Louis onto the hard ground ruefully.

He thinks that the other Superiors leave in some span of time. He thinks that he hears the door close. He thinks a lot of things, but the only thing that he's sure of is that Liam is lying in front of him, dead, just a few feet away. Blood is pooled all around his body and Louis can't stop shaking.

He looks at the dead boy in front of him and sees the seventeen year old version of him, with his flat hair and shy demeanor. He sees the Liam that had curls and warm hands and would sometimes ask Louis to tell him stories when he felt homesick. He sees the Liam that shaved off all of his hair after his dad died, the Liam that would cry into his chest and whisper that he loved Louis. And Louis would say that he loved him, too. He sees the Liam that represented everything that's good in this life. The one person that trusted you no matter what and had warm eyes that made you feel a little less alone. Liam was a lot like a human hug, and Louis never cherished him enough when he had the chance.

Louis does something that he hasn't done for over a decade and allows himself to cry. He cries for the loss of Liam, his mate. He cries for all of the deaths that he caused. He cries for all of the moments that Louis held his resolve together when really he just wanted to break. He cries because he feels like Liam represented the last bits of innocence in his own life. Like Liam was the one thing that helped him feel pure and clean when in reality the rest of his life was cloaked in lies, death, and deceit. Liam might not be worth more than others in The Movement's eyes, but his life was worth everything to Louis. Liam was everything, and now he's dead.

Louis is the reason why Liam is dead, and he has the blood on his hands to prove it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are appreciated!! hmu on [tumblr](http://voguelourry.tumblr.com)


	15. Chapter 15

**_HARRY’S POV_ **

Harry blinks away the water from his eyes, tilting his head back and letting the beads pulsate against the crown of his head. There's a steady pressure all around him, pounding on his shoulder blades and lower back deliciously. It's like a thousand tiny hands are massaging gently at his taut muscles, slowly relinquishing the stress that's been building there for months now. He glances upward, right into where there's a panel of light illuminating the small shower. Thousands of tiny particles are flitting towards the singular ray, and Harry's mind flits off to think that perhaps those particles are small, intermolecular beings of the ones that had fallen in the latest Unconformist attack.

He knows that that can't possibly be it. That there is nothing that happens to someone after they die. But his mind just can't accept that, he refuses to think that once their physical selves are dragged away from livelihood they cease to exist. And it's not right that so many people died because of the Unconfromists. It isn't fair for their stories to be cut short all in the name of war. So many mothers, fathers, children, and Superiors have been killed mercilessly, and Harry just can't let that go.

He gives his hair a final rinse, gliding his fingers through the wet waves to untangle certain bits before shutting the shower off and leaving it altogether. He wraps a towel around his waist and turns around. Pressing his hand to the massive touch panel and initiating the flame sequence that burns all of his dead skin cells that came off in the shower. Dusty is waiting outside of the washroom door, and he leans down to give her a fond pat before continuing towards the living area.

The telly is on, thrumming about all of the ones lost in the latest attack. It's odd, Harry thinks, how much more affected all of the announcers and higher ups seem about this than they were about Pod R. It's like they're more devastated about this loss, like they weren't as prepared for it. That confuses Harry, too. Because the value of one persons life shouldn't be any more important than the other. The only way that he can rationalize why everyone seems more shaken up about last week's attack is because it was on Pod that borders their own.

"Finally. I thought I was going to have to drag you out of that shower by the curls." A voice says and Harry jumps.

He slowly rounds the corner to his living area. He can make out a mess of brown hair on his couch and his mind immediately predicts Louis. But the man turns to reveal an ever-smiling Niall Horan beaming dead on at him.

"How'd you get in my flat?" Harry asks breathlessly.

"I'm Niall Horan. I can do anything." Niall stands up and brushes his hands on his trousers. "Are you aware that your towel has fallen off?"

Harry glances down and immediately blushes, hand scrabbling to cover himself while he bends down to retrieve his towel. He tightens the knot against his waist and stares at Niall. He has minuscule bags under his eyes, and his smile is twitching subtly at the sides. Those are the only indications that the past few days have taken any sort of toll on him. He taps his fingers against his wrist, fiddling with his watch before reaching into his pocket to introduce an all-too-familiar silver container.

"One moment please," Niall tells Harry, pressing an injector into his own neck and inhaling deeply. "Just a few more of these injections and I should be completely cured." It takes Harry a while to remember that Niall was in remission for cancer, but when he does, he nods. "Anyways, your endowment and my health issues aside, I need you to go put on your Superior kit."

"But today's my day off," Harry says.

"I need you to go put on your Superior kit." Niall repeats, widening his eyes empathetically.

Harry opens his mouth and closes it before nodding. He goes to his room and slips on his kit, Dusty contorting her lithe body between his ankles placatingly the entire time. Niall is accessing the walls of Harry's living room when he comes back. He slides his eyes, an alarming shade of blue, towards Harry when he clears his throat.

"Pretty empty." Niall nods towards the absence of any digital picture frames on his wall. "I always envisioned you having a flat cluttered with pictures of family and friends."

Harry shrugs in answer. Feeling like the answering,  _ well my Mum and Dusty are all I've got _ , would be too depressing to say. Niall nods and turns to Harry, smile itching at his lips.

"Well, who needs friends, anyways? You've probably got yourself well occupied with the massive surprise you have hidden in your trousers."

Harry makes a choked off sound in shock. What does Niall mean -- Harry would never --

"Relax, lad. I'm just saying you have a big cock, is all." Niall pats Harry on the shoulder and heads towards his door. "Now, follow me. We have a mission to accomplish."

"What mission?" Harry asks, but Niall is already out of his flat.

Harry stares at his door, slowly chewing on his bottom lip and weighing his options. Either he goes with Niall into some blind mission of some sort that he has no idea about, or he sits on his couch for the rest of the day and worry himself to death over what he's missing. That's that, then. He gives Dusty a quick goodbye cuddle and leaves his flat.

;;

"What?" Harry near-screams.

The bustle of the street does nothing to cover his outburst, and more than a handful of civilians turn and stare at him until they realize he's a Superior and quickly turns back around. Niall is grinning near-manically at him and nodding. Harry wants nothing more than to be back in bed.

"I have direct orders to do this from Simon. I figured that you could be of help."

"Why would --" Harry cuts himself off to glance down at his wristband. He only has  _ 07  _ words left. He grabs his scribe and finishes what he wants to say.  _ "Why would our Head Superior send another Superior to Superior HQ to retrieve an Unconformist from holding?" _

Niall licks his lips and rolls his shoulders.

"Okay, so it sounds sketchy, I get that. But I am the head of Internal Affairs. There's a lot of weird relationships and networking that's in the core of our higher ups. And it's my job to make sure that no one gets away with shit that the other side wouldn't approve of." Niall takes a steady breath before lowering his voice. "And Simon and his people really don't enjoy having their token 'Arsehole Techie' under the Imperialistic side's captivity. Their techniques on getting what they want are a tad bit.. unconventional."

_ "Wait... What do you mean that there are two sides of Superiors? I thought we were all striving for the same thing? Peace and prosperity?" _

"I mean. We are all working together in the name of the greater good. But they just have different opinions on how to achieve it." Niall sits down on a bench and pulls Harry down beside him, forcing an oddly serious eye contact to happen between them. "Harry, what you have to understand about any outlet of power is that even though they're all under the same division, they're not all going to agree. They don't want the civilians to know that their perfect government body is at war with itself as well as the Unconformists. But. It is. And it's my job to mediate what goes on between them."

_ "Oh.. But what does that have to do with Louis? What does this have to do with me?" _

"Well, Louis has always been a major debate point for the two sides of Superiors -the Imperialists and the Pacifists are what they called, by the way- they can never agree on what to do with him." Niall scratches the back of his neck and glances around the relatively empty city street. "One side wants to torture him and keep him in holding, exercise his use whenever they please and practically make him a human machine. And the other side claims that that method is just begging for disaster, that Louis could easily make tech that could kill any Superior that puts their hand on it and that its best to give him a semblance of freedom. After the Unconformists' attack, both sides decided that Louis needed punishment. But they didn't agree on what degree he'll receive before the Imperialists snatched him. And Simon was displeased with that, so he wants Tomlinson back. So they called me in to mediate and retrieve Tommo without making a huge fuss."

Harry's stomach knots unpleasantly in his stomach. The more he thinks about Louis, the more uneasy he feels about what lies ahead of him in his life. There's just this aura that settles over him like a black cloud with a silver lining. Makes him radiate danger and trepidation with just enough charm and promising happiness to drag you in. And there's something about Niall, something that hints at him having more dimension and secrets than what he really does. It's like everyone has a darker side than what they let on, and Harry's just scrambling to find the one person that's light outshines the dark.

_ "Was it in Simon's orders that you use me for this 'mission', too?"  _ Harry projects.

Niall pauses, gnawing on his lower lip minutely.

"No. He didn't include your name in the orders. But, he told me to make sure that Louis is calm and healthy when I walk him out of the doors of his holding cell." Niall pats Harry on the back. "And I know that you are the only other white suit that he could look in the eye and not automatically start throwing punches at. So you were the obvious choice to accompany me. Because no one can walk into HQ and walk out with one of The Movements' Most Wanted alone."

Harry nods. That seems honest enough.  _ "I'm in," _ he projects.

Niall smiles and stands up from the bench. He holds out a hand to help Harry stand up, which he takes hesitantly. Niall starts walking swiftly down the sidewalk, Harry dragging his feet behind him.

"I have a plan, but all you need to know is that you need to just follow my lead. And when I say run, you better run."

;;

Niall presses his thumb in the scanner by the door to the looming, silver HQ building, standing back as the door silently slides open and tilting his head for Harry to follow him closely as they stride into the massive lobby. It's the standard for a Superior building, a myriad of crisp whites and gleaming silvers with Superiors pacing efficiently from place to place and murmuring quietly to one another as they pass by. Niall strides to the massive reception desk and grins at the petite Superior that's sat behind it.

"Hi there, I'm Niall." Niall smiles and looks at Harry. "And this is Harry, but he doesn't like to talk much."

Harry smiled at the girl, too. She nodded and smiled tightly before sweeping her hand over the face of the desk to activate the computer system embedded in it.

"What brings you here today, Mr. Horan?"

"Simon sent me to pick up a tech database." Niall says, shoving has hands into the pockets of his trousers. "Said that he needs it urgently."

"The Simon?" She pauses her movements on the computer desk.

"Yeah. Don't ask, I can assure you that he's just as chummy as everyone claims he is." The girl lets out a small laugh. "Anyways, I do need clearance for the entire building. The instructions on where the database is was incredibly vague."

"Oh.. Oh yeah. Do you both mind showing me your Superior IDs before I let you through? For security reasons, of course."

"Of course," Niall hands her his ID and Harry follows suit, staring at the side of Niall's face, anxiety and mild confusion blooming through his bones. "Security is really important here, as of lately."

The girl nods tightly and scans their IDs. She hands them back and taps her finger on the desk, bidding for the entire computer projection to vanish on the desk.

"You should be cleared for the entire building, but if you need a code to gain entry to a door, it's more than likely that what you need isn't in there." She flicks her eyes at their crisp Superior suits. "I suppose that you two are aware of the rules here at Superior HQ: Imperial, right?"

"We're well aware." Niall turns around and makes pace towards the elevator, loudly saying "Thanks, love." over his shoulder.

Harry shuffles his feet and goes after him. Sliding into the elevator and releasing a deep breath that he wasn't aware that he's been holding. Niall mimics his exhale and slumps against the side of the elevator, running a hand through his downy brown hair.

"That was the easy part. From here on it gets a bit more.. complicated." Niall tells him.

Harry nods and pushes back his hair that's more like a curtain of curls now that's he's let it grow out for a while. Should've pulled it up into a bun before he agreed to leave with Niall, he mentally berates himself before he remembers that Niall didn't even give Harry the chance to dry his hair before dragging him out of his flat. Niall is fiddling with his scribe when Harry glances back at him, mouth pursed in concentration. He catches Harry staring and manipulates his mouth into his trademark easy smile.

"I never even had the chance to ask how've you been, Harry." Niall says. "Did the last attack have any effect on your life?"

Harry shakes his head, reaching for his messenger bag to grab his scribe and ask Niall the same question, but Niall stops him by speaking out loud before he can even ask.

"All of my family lives in this Pod. So I was okay, too. It's just sad to think about all of the people that lost their loved ones."

Harry nods. He can't lie, when The Movement had the ceremony for all of the ones that died in the last attack, he kept his eyes peeled for Gemma's name. Parts of him feel like she's probably dead, that if she was alive she would have came and talked to him and his Mum one last time. But another part feels like maybe she's alive and just can't reach them, or maybe she doesn't want to see them ever again. That idea might hurt worse than if she was dead. He still loves her, even with everything's she's done. She's not Louis. She was just an innocent girl that was brainwashed into joining the Unconformists and instead of just silencing her they just took her. Harry doesn't see why they scrabble to save Louis and keep him safe even though he's an outright rebel that inhales danger like its oxygen, but they could just let Gemma disappear into nothingness.

Was their search teams to save Gemma after The Movement took her? Did she have people on missions to come relieve her from captivity? Or did they just turn a blind eye to her? Did they not see her as a priority like how they see Louis? Did they just watch her fall into rebellion and count her as a loss before slapping a silencer on her and leaving her to die a slow, quiet death? He just wants to know if there was all of this fuss to save Louis, was there a lot of work done to save Gemma, too? Or did they just let her die because Harry had her genes too and she wasn't seen as valuable enough to retrieve?

He's about to ask Niall if they did anything for Gemma when the elevator finally slowed to a halt. Niall clears his throat and nods at Harry encouragingly.

"Get your game face on, Styles, we have a rebel to save."

Niall strode out of the elevator, head high and shoulders back to radiate the message that he belongs there. Harry tries to mimic him but feels more like a toddler trying to wear his Mum's shoes. Passing Superiors glance at them but don't pay them much mind, and Niall takes a sharp turn down a separate hallway. The hall is completely empty, with no doors and no people milling about in it. But Niall continues to walk down it, reaching in his pocket and unclasping a piece of tech before pressing it against the wall. A quick blue light pulses over the white walls like a scanner, and then a door appears at the end of the hall.

"Thank God for Grimmy and his blueprints. Would've never figured out my way around here by myself." Niall murmurs.

Niall presses his hand to the scanner and huffs when it blares red and a smooth, unattached voice hums 'Access Denied'.

"Dammit, I knew it wouldn't be that easy but we were just making such good time." Niall pouts and tries to scan his other hand. "Harry, you try."

Harry takes a small step forward and presses his hand on the scanner, feeling the familiar tickle of the tech roving over his hand before the machine blares red again and says 'Access Denied'. Niall kicks the wall and starts to fiddle around with his pockets, and Harry watches silently. A tuft of brown hair falls in Niall's face and Harry stares at it. The rest of his hair is pushed back in a semblance of order, but that one tuft of hair is like its aggressively moving against the system to make itself stick out. Harry feels like Niall's hair could be a metaphor of sorts for Niall, himself. He's different than any other Superior he's ever been around. And that's probably why Harry enjoys his company so much. Because he's different and happy. And Harry's life has surely been filled with a lot of different lately, but hardly any happy. He needs the happy, he thinks, in order to keep pushing on to live in this world with all of its dark twist and turns.

"Fucking," Niall murmurs and pulls out a thin piece of tech out of his pocket. "If this doesn't do the trick I don't know what will. Take a few steps back and cover your eyes, Harry. Don't want to scorch your retinas."

Harry nods and shuffles backwards, watching as Niall presses the tech against the door before pressing his hands over his eyes, feeling disturbingly like an adult playing a game with a toddler. He drops his hands to hang limply at his waist after Niall makes a satisfied sound and the telltale nearly silent whoosh of a door opening.

"Harry," Niall says, voice dropping seriously. "I'm not sure what's on the other side of the door, but I'm completely serious when I say that you do anything in your power to assure your own safety."

And with that, Niall walks through the door. Harry takes a steadying breath and follows after him.

A deep, primal scream permeates through the room as soon as Harry crosses the threshold.

Louis is cowered in the corner of the room, small hands grasping tightly to his own shoulders while his chest moves with pained heaves. His fringe is matted to his chest and there's a massive bruise blossoming on his left cheekbone. He looks like a contained storm cloud, visibly rumbling and ready to strike with lighting but is being held back with some indecipherable force. Niall takes a hesitant step forward, and Louis presses his back even closer to the wall.

"Don't touch me," Louis whispers, voice cracking and eyes empty. "Don't come closer."

"Louis... Louis it's me. It's Nialler. You remember me, yeah? From when we were young lads in our nappies -"

"Don't come closer!" Louis screams. Niall takes a cautious step back.

"What'd they do to you, Lou?" Niall asks lowly.

Harry watches as Louis stares blankly at Niall before flicking his eyes to a spot on the floor. Harry looks at it too, eyebrows shooting up when he spots a massive stain of red blemishing the otherwise pristine floor. Is that Louis' blood?

"Please don't hurt them." Louis whispers, voice delicate like the petal of a tulip.

"Don't hurt who, Louis?" Niall murmurs.

"My girls, please don't hurt my girls. I'll do anything, just don't hurt them. They're all I have left."

Harry isn't sure exactly who Louis' girls are, but he does know that he's never seen Louis Tomlinson ever look so devastated before in his life. His cheeks are hollow and he looks too delicate and small for his own clothes. There's days worth of stubble matted against his jawline and his eyelashes are fluttering skittishly like a caged bird as he shifted his eyes between Niall and the faint stain. Harry feels a surge of worry explode through his gut as a small voice, one that's reminiscent of the Harry that only believed in keeping others safe at all costs, murmurs protect him.

He drags his foot forward, feeling like he's slowly releasing his ankle from a heavy shackle and taking a first step into freedom when walks towards Louis, holding out his hand fruitlessly. Like a tentative person holding their hand out to a wild animal to show that they're not a threat.

"Is he -" Harry says aloud and Louis jerks to face him, visibly startling.

A myriad of storm clouds thunder over Louis' eyes as he stares at Harry. Mouth opening and shutting while a frail, abnormally hand slowly moves upwards to pull at his own hair. His left leg twitches, and there's a moment of dead silence, like the air is sucked out of the room. And then Louis stands up.

At first, Harry thinks that his ears are ringing. It takes him until he feels a hand gripping at the collar of his shirt to realize that it's Louis' screaming. Harry plants himself to the ground while Louis' screams, mouth wide and eyes searching Harry's face but not seeming to really process anything. He feels like he's underwater for the longest time, isn't really there until he feels another body slide between them, and hears Niall's voice whispering to Louis.

"Gemma," Louis yells, and it feels like Harry was just shocked with a thousand volts of electricity. "Gemma. I saw her. She was right there! She was dressed in white and she told me to follow her but I couldn't because I was stuck to the fucking ground."

Harry's mind trips over the word Gemma for a few moments, and he steps closer to Louis even though that's probably stupid, because he's thrashing around in Niall's arms and clawing at nothing. Like he's ready to attack. Louis' hand makes contact with his bicep, and his nails dig in harshly through the sleeve of his Superior suit.

"He's delirious, Harry, don't take anything he says seriously," Niall tells him but is overpowered by Louis' yelling.

"I saw her. I saw Gemma and I saw Liam. They were here. Gemma and Liam were here." Louis stills in Niall's arms momentarily. "Liam." he repeats to himself, voice cracking.

Louis goes limp in Niall's arms, knees buckling and his entire demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. His hand starts to pull at how own hair again and he folds in on himself. Niall gently guides him down to the floor, putting a hand on his shoulder before looking back at Harry, brows knitted together.

"I think he's gone insane," Niall says slowly.

They both glance back at Louis, who's hugging his own knees and rocking himself back and forth gently. His loud breaths fill the entire room, and Harry can just barely make out the quiet "LiamLiamLiam" that Louis is mumbling under his breath. Louis is like a human flame, burning and hissing with a bright fire that threatens to hurt you, but it slowly diminishes with time until it's nothing but a wisp of smoke and ash of what once shone so bright. Harry can see the way that Louis is quickly disappearing into his own madness right in front of him.

Niall takes a deep breath and claps his hands together. "Hold him down. I need to administer a sedative so that we can get him out of here without making it a massive production."

Harry nods slowly, stepping forward and crouching down. He inhales harshly, the room smells metallic like blood and tears, he notes. Louis' head is resting between his knees while he rocks, so all he can see is his greasy, matted fringe. He cautiously fits his hand around Louis' surprisingly slim and frail wrist. He can feel Louis' tendons tense under his grip, and he stares as Louis shifts to glance back up at Harry. It's dead silent in the room aside from Louis' sniffles.

"Liam," Louis says to Harry, voice quivering. Harry nods, even though he has no idea what Louis means before gripping his other hand, as well. He holds Louis' wrists and gently guides him backwards until he unfolds himself. "What are you doing?"

"It's alright, Tommo. We're gonna get you calmed down and back to your Liam in no time." Niall says, Harry looks over his shoulder to see Niall pulling an injector out of his waistband. He looks back when he feels Louis' wrists struggle under his grip. Fat tears are rolling down Louis' cheeks as he sobs, making his blue eyes look glassy and unreal. He's heaving with every inhale, and panic is thrumming through all of his veins. He doesn't look like Louis. He looks like a dying star. "Stay still now, Lou."

"Are you going to kill me?" Louis asks. Harry's heart plummets when he realizes that Louis doesn't even sound upset by the idea of it.

"Of course not. H and I aren't going to hurt you." Niall hums and directs a question to Harry. "Can you feel his pulse? I want you to lift your left leg if his pulse feels really fast, and your right leg if it feels really slow. Don't lift either of your legs if it feels normal to you."

Harry nods and shifts his hands, focusing on the thud of Louis' heartbeat under the pads of his fingers. His pulse is thrumming fastly like a birds wings. Harry frowns worriedly. He lifts his left leg and doesn't even feel that guilty on how he's currently doing something illegal by giving a form of sign language, because this entire situation already feels extremely illegal on its own.

"Shit," Niall murmurs and Harry watches over his shoulder as Niall sits just above Louis' knees and shoves the hem of Louis' tattered shirt to reveal a sharp hip bone. "Louis? Are you still with us? I'm going to inject you now."

Louis doesn't say anything, but Harry can still feel his hands twisting in his grip and hear his panicked breaths and cries. He watches as Niall presses the thumb on the sensor and the needle presses into Louis' tan skin. Louis lets out an anguished shout of pain and writhes, his whole entire body giving a great tremble before he goes limp. Harry lets go of his hands and slowly stands up. Niall does the same and they both stare at each other for a moment over Louis' unconscious body.

"I don't want to know what they did to him here." Niall says and looks back down at Louis.

Harry nods slowly. They must've tortured him for days, for Louis to lose control like that. There wasn't even a trace of the powerful, dangerous Louis that Harry knows. Just an empty shell that was terrified and unaware of what was real and what was not. He feels awful for him, until he remembers exactly why Louis is here. He killed two pods worth of people, and he does deserve some sort of punishment.

"Well, pick him up. I have to figure out a way to get him out of here and we only have five minutes before security is on our arse."

Harry hoists Louis' deadweight up by his under arms. He's surprisingly light but Harry still struggles a little to adjust him against his waist.

He wants to ask Niall what he means by security coming after them, but Niall is already pressing his hands against the wall and mumbling to himself. Harry shifts Louis and wraps a steady arm around his waist as Niall pulls out yet another piece of tech and slides it in a square on the wall. The path of the tech leaves a blue line, and when Niall presses his thumb to the face of the tech the blue lines fade and part of the wall starts to collapse in on itself. Niall grabs puts a grappling hook of sorts on the top of the cut out square and pulls it, making the square fall into the floor with a cloud of dust.

Harry gapes as Niall grabs another -seriously, how much can he have stowed away in there?- small piece of tech out of his pocket. He presses a button and promptly throws it out the window.

"I'm going to have to ask you to jump."

"Jump where?" Harry only has two words left for the day.

"Out of the window. You didn't think I'd just have you and an unconscious captive walk out the front door, right? That's just asking for trouble."

That makes a terrifying amount of sense, Harry concedes and slowly drags Louis towards the wall. Peering out of the massive whole and staring downwards. He instantly takes a step backwards, the floor they're on is extremely high. He can't jump out of the building into nothing without surely killing himself, especially with an unconscious Louis on his back.

"Don't worry, the board will catch you." Harry looks down and squints. He doesn't see a hover board and he doesn't quite trust his aim enough to be able to fit two flailing bodies on a board that's probably about the size of a pizza box. "Trust me, Styles. You and Louis will both be fine. You don't even have to steer it, its on autopilot. But you do have to jump now. Security will be here soon."

Harry steps forward, his foot hitting the low piece of wall that's still attached. The drop is too steep, and every fiber in his being is telling him that they won't be able to make it. He can already see the visible panic his mum will go into when she sees the new on the Telly of a Superior and his stowaway splattered on the sidewalk in front of HQ. He can't do this.

"Harry, I'm serious. You have to go."

Harry nods and swallows down his fear. It's either jump to his maybe-death or definitely be shot at by security guards. He'll take his chances with the former. Harry shifts Louis onto his back and rakes in a deep breath, clenching Louis' meaty thighs to his side's before diving forward out of the opening of the wall.

He watches in silent horror as he plummets towards the clean sidewalk, holding on tightly to Louis' legs and ignoring when he feels Louis' placid lips on the back of his neck for a moment. Louis' head lulls forward onto his shoulder just when they're close enough to the ground that he can see the cracks in the sidewalk. A scream threatens to rip out of his mouth just when he's stopped by the solid weight of something invisible.

Harry lets out a pained 'oof' and shakes Louis off of his back so that he can turn around. He hardly has time to regain his breath before the hoverboard surges forward. Harry grips Louis' arm hurriedly to make sure that his body doesn't fly off the board. He tries to control his breathing as the board glides through the air, forcing his muscles to relax even a little before glancing over at Louis.

He still looks like shit. With a busted lip and a black eye and torn clothes. But he looks younger, more stress-free and stationary when he's asleep. He also looks... almost sort of pretty. With his long lashes and rose quartz colored lips and sharp cheekbones. Harry can kind of see why Liam is so attracted to Louis. He swallows and looks back up towards the bright blue sky. This day has most definitely made him certifiably insane, Harry mentally declares, he just thought that Louis Tomlinson was pretty.

Harry watches the wispy clouds and the high rising buildings pass by as he flies through what he can tell is the pathway to his own flat. The invisible hoverboard stops in front of his building and he slings over the side of it. He pulls Louis off of the board too, gripping his shoulders and frog marching him up the steps to their building.

Harry actually manages to get Louis up to their floor without being spotted by any other their neighbors. He stares at Louis and Liam's closed door for a moment, thinking about knocking to see if Liam can let them in but quickly decides against it. It probably won't be best to leave his unconscious mate at his doorstep. Liam does have a habit of worrying over Louis like an overprotective mum. Which is obviously a good thing seeing as Louis has a habit of weaving himself into trouble.

He opens up his own flat, instead. Pouring Louis onto his couch before walking to his room. He changes out of his Superior kit and washes his face vigorously before tying his hair back in a bun. He comes back to see Louis laying limply on his couch with Dusty curled between his ankles. His door creaks and Niall walks in his flat.

He has a red mark under his eye but appears otherwise unscathed. Niall kicks off his shoes and nods at Harry with a smile.

"That was sick, wasn't it?" Niall plops down on the couch beside Louis. "Felt like a right badass."

Harry lets his mouth smile and awkwardly sits on the coffee table in front of Niall. Niall notices his oddness and pats the open space of the couch beside him but Harry shakes his head. He grabs his scribe and glances at Niall expectantly.

"I know Superiors aren't supposed to be into it, the illegal stuff. That we should be focused on just doing good. But sometimes it just gives me a rush to do something slightly in the wrong. Even if it was under Superior orders." He gives a toothy, crooked smile. "Perhaps it's the leftover Unconformist in me."

" 'Leftover Unconformist?' " Harry projects on his scribe.

"Yeah, I've told you already. My Mum was an Unconformist. I was raised to be that way, but my dad got custody of me and put me in the right place by the time I was a teen. Doesn't mean I'm not aware of everything they taught, though."

"What all did they 'teach'?" Harry asks, because he's always wondered about the 'Truth Talks' he heard Louis and Zayn and even Gemma mention.

"Basically.. The Movement has stripped us all of what makes us individuals. There used to be so many ways for someone to express themselves. They would have pictures, but they'd make them up on their own. Out of their own minds. It's insane. And then they had these weird things that they'd all listen to, where there was like some hypnotic tune in the background as people used their voices in these beautiful ways to make some sort of.... melody, of sorts. And those things would tell messages about how they feel. There was just so many things, things that they did to express themselves. And no one was like the next person. It actually seems very cool."

"If those things were so great, why would The Movement take them away?"

"Because those things had messages, and some were against the government. And those messages could actually move people to do things because of the inspiration they'd cause." Niall says, and it all sounds like pure gibberish. "But I think the true reason is because at one point in the Dark Era, people were able to spread their messages just as easily as the government. And it was all so reachable; everyone could see everything. They could start rebellions and progress on their own, and point out flaws in the government and everyone would do. They quickly made the government inferior. So after the Revolution, The Movement did away with it."

"That makes no sense." Harry says truthfully.

"It doesn't have to," an odd, plastered smile comes on Niall's lips. "All I'm saying is that the Unconformists fight for our individuality. They believe in equality and expression. It's pretty great."

"If you're into what they believe, then why'd you decide to be a Superior?"

"Because," Niall takes a deep breath and stands up. "Sure, I know about the wrongs that The Movement is doing by containing us. But I also know that no matter what the Unconformists do, they'll never be able to escape The Movement and its rules."

Harry gapes up at Niall, watching as he slips back on his shoes and shoulders on a brown jacket.

"I'll come by later to check on him. I had a fun day with you, Harry."

Harry nods silently. Watching as Niall lets himself out from his perch on the coffee table.

;;

Harry is sleeping in his bed hours later, with Dusty lying beside his head and his clock saying it's just past one in the morning. He hears foot steps out side of his bedroom door and cracks one of his eyes open just as a sliver of light pours through the threshold.

He watches as a tiny body and rumpled fringe makes it way to him. The bed dips and Harry perches up on his elbow mouth opening to say something but is cut off by Louis' rasping voice.

"I missed you, Li," Louis murmurs, laying on the bed, facing away from Harry. "Missed you so much."

One of Louis' small hands slides backwards and fits in between Harry's fingers. Harry stares at where he's touching Louis drowsily before shoving his face back into the pillow. He's much too tired to recoil from it and kick Louis out of his bed or even question himself on the warm, fuzzy coil that's forming in his stomach when he thinks about how well they slot together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are appreciated!! hmu on [tumblr](http://voguelourry.tumblr.com)


	16. Chapter 16

**_LOUIS' POV_ **

Louis' drowsy, his mind in an endless limbo between wake and sleep, when he feels a warm hand tighten around his own.

He twists his eyes shut and rolls closer to the warmth, hooking his arm around the other person's waist and shoving his face in the crook of their neck. His head hurts like fuck, throbbing and shooting pain down towards his neck. He feels like he just tried to head butt a building with all of his might. But the scent of the person he's wrapped around like a vine helps loosen the pain. The person smells earthy, like freshly cut grass, mint, and something that's inexplicably fruity.

The person beside him - Liam, his brain provides finally- twists Louis closer and hooks his chin over the top of his head. He doesn't remember Liam's hands being so large, but they feel like they're encompassing him. One massive hand resting on the small of his back, moving minutely in small circles, and the other folded over his own, much smaller one. The hands feel like they're anchoring Louis to the bed, to this life, because everything is swirling and threatening to give out beneath him but Liam's hands hold him steady.

Louis can't remember the last time he's been this close to Liam, he can't even remember the last time he has seen his mate. But the dull ache in his heart and the tears that threaten to spill from his eyes allude to that its been a long time, and that Louis has missed him. Louis presses his mouth to Liam's neck and takes a deep breath in. His pulse is steady and slow, so he must still be asleep.

Louis sniffs and keeps his eyes shut as he leans upward, until he can feel light puffs of air hitting his own lips. He leans down until he's barely ghosting over Liam's mouth, aiming to kiss him awake.

"What are you doing?" A voice that's deep and rumbling and most definitely not Liam's makes him stop.

Louis' eyes shoot open and the room swirls in intelligible colors for a few moments until he can make out long, brown curls, cherry lips, and wide, frightened eyes. Louis' confused for a moment. He thought he was in bed with Liam, not Harry.

"What? Louis, you nearly kissed me." Harry disentangles from their sleepy embrace, panting loudly. "That's illegal."

By Movement law (which of course, is shit and insanely strict and has outlandish punishment for the smallest slip-up) if someone ever engages in a romantic action with someone that's not their mate, then they are punished with death. This law was never really a problem back when The Movement actually mated people with people that actually were their soul mates. But now they're making sure to not allow mates be able to get too attached to one another so that they won't fight The Movement if something would happen to their mate, the adultery laws are all more oppressive.

Liam always told Louis that he thought the law was bogus, because who would ever want to hurt their mate by being with someone else? Louis glances down at the bed, swallowing as his head rolls with another wave of pain, this one more intense than any of the others. He clenches his jaw and slides away from Harry, stepping out of the bed.

As soon as he's not touching Harry any longer, he feels like he's lost his entire resolve. Like a bucketful of ice cold water was poured over him. The world quickly begins to rearrange and Louis feels his sanity slip away.

The walls change colors and feel like they're closing in on him, and then the room is swirling and all Louis can hear is minute echoes of his own screams, he looks around Harry's bedroom, but he doesn't think he's there anymore. Instead he's in a white room, watching blood blossom out of Liam's body while his color fades slowly.

"Liam?" Louis says aloud, he takes a step forward and his head swims again. He falls to the floor and Liam keeps flickering ahead of him, like he's about to disappear. "Liam?"

He crawls until he's right over him, he tries to touch his hair, soothe the pained twist on his face, but his hand hits nothing but thin air.

"Liam!" Louis screams.

He's so confused, he just wants to touch him. Louis tries to press his hand to Liam's chest. Put pressure on the where he's bleeding but again he touches nothing.

Two strong hands pull on his shoulders, and Louis immediately fights them off. A Superior, his mind thinks wildly. They're going to kill me, too. I didn't even get to say goodbye to the girls. He screams, twisting his eyes closed and rearing his elbow back into the person's gut, making them huff out a pained breath.

"Louis," the person wheezes.

"Don't touch me," Louis feels a sob rip out of his chest. "Don't hurt me like how you hurt him."

"I won't hurt you. I would never hurt you."

Louis folds in on himself, pressing his forehead to his bare knee and inhaling quickly. His chest is constricting and he feels like he just can't breathe. All he hears is so many voices. He hears his mum telling him to be careful, he hears Liam saying that he loves him, he hears some man saying he isn't untouchable, he hears Paul telling him that they're in war, and he hears Harry, of all people, saying that it's okay and to just open his eyes.

Louis rakes in an inhale that's a lot like the tide of an ocean, receding and moving forward ever so slowly. He cracks open his eyes and Liam isn't there anymore. He doubts that Liam was ever there. Instead, he's staring at Harry Styles' bare wall and wooden floor.

"Where am I?" Louis asks anyways, just in case.

"My flat." Harry says tentatively from behind him.

Instead of asking why, Louis shakily brings himself up to his feet. He glances around Harry's bedroom, which is standard and looks hardly lived in just like the rest of his flat.

"I should go." Louis tells him, and Harry's mouth turns down into a frown.

"But you're delirious." Harry points out.

Louis shrugs, "I have things to do."

He leaves the room with an absent wave over his shoulder. He rushes out of Harry's flat and back into his own. He skims his eyes around the flat. There's nothing out of order, except for the distinct absence of Liam. His shoes aren't resting by the door and one of his scribes isn't on the table. Liam should be home at this time, sitting on the couch and watching some program held by The Movement while absently chewing on a spoonful of oats. But he's not. Liam isn't here.

Louis grabs his coat and toes on some shoes before leaving his flat.

;;

_"Liam is dead, I think."_ Louis announces to the table.

A fork scrapes over a mostly bare plate and it's completely quiet in the Deakin home, for once. All eyes are resting on him, his mum's mouth is open but she's not saying anything.

_"Did you kill him?"_ Fizzy projects on the wall.

_"What do you mean 'you think'?"_ Dan says.

_"Who is Liam?"_ Daisy projects.

_"Phoebe, Daisy. Go to your room to play,"_ his mum projects. " _Now, please."_

_"But who is Liam?"_ Phoebe projects, Louis' mum shoots a withering glare at them. The girls huff and grab their scribes and plates before leaving the room.

_"Did you kill him?"_ Fizzy projects again.

_"Félicité."_ His mum projects.

_"I did not kill him. It's just, I keep getting these little memories of him bleeding on a floor and me screaming. But every time I try to really think about it, I come up blank."_ Louis inhales shakily. _"But he hasn't come back to the flat and I just feel... empty. Like my heart knows it, but my mind can't make sure if he is or not. I just. I think that Liam is dead."_

Just thinking about it makes tears want to fall from his eyes. What will he do if he really lost Liam? He wasn't in love with him, but he did love him. Just not in the right way. Liam was a constant, someone that he could always fall in bed with. Someone that didn't look at Louis like he was either an object or a monster.

_"Oh, Lou."_ His mum says aloud and puts a hand on top of his.

"And I just," he breaks off and swallows back a sob. "I feel like him dying is my fault. I keep remembering someone saying that Liam dying is just a warning, and that I'm not untouchable. I feel like if I keep doing what I'm doing then The Movement might come after you all."

His mum's mouth sets in a line. Her eyes turn cold and hard, like steel.

_"No."_ She projects. _"Louis, I told you that you should leave the Unconformists. It'll be so much safer for you. For us."_

"Nothing is safe anymore, Mum. No matter which side you're on, you're never safe. Don't you see this war that's coming?"

Félicité drops her fork, her eyes widen owlishly. _"A war is coming?"_

Louis stands up from his seat and pulls her into his chest. He hooks his chin over her bony shoulder and rubs her back slowly.

"I won't lie to you, Fizz. There is one. But I will fight until my last breath to keep all of you girls safe, alright?"

Fizzy nods slowly, and he feels his shirt moisten with a few of her tears. Her small hand clenches the fabric of his shirt, and she whispers into his shirt.

_"I'm scared to die."_ She says, and Louis' heart shatters tenfold.

He kisses the top of her head. "I won't let you."

He might've let Liam slip through his hands and die. But he refuses to lose another sister to The Movement. He refuses to let anyone take anybody he loves. He's already lost too much to them.

His mum stands up quickly and leaves the room. Louis glances over at the projection screen and feels sick when he reads what she said.

_ "I've heard that before. Don't make promises you can't keep, Lou." _

;;

Louis shifts on the couch and stares at the front door. Swallowing nervously and wiping his hands against the fabric of his trousers. _Please prove me wrong,_ his mind begs, _please._

But the door remains shut, and Louis' heart keeps sinking with worry. He really thinks that Liam is dead, that what he keeps remembering is real. That he pissed The Movement off beyond belief and now he lost his mate. Liam always comes back to the flat before the meal port signifies that it's time for their third meal of the day. But now Louis is sitting, staring down at his meager rice portion and his contraband cup of tea while Liam's meal is still waiting for his hand to scan it in order for the meal to be available.

Louis divots his socked foot onto the hardwood floor and blows out a quick breath before standing. He walks into his and Liam's bedroom, frowning at how his side of the bed is unmade while Liam's is done up precisely. The entire flat feels half empty, like its waiting for Liam to come back in and make everything whole again.

Maybe the state of the flat is a metaphor for the state of his heart.

Louis' eyes sweep over the bedroom one last time. His intuition is hardly wrong when it comes to things like this. And he knows that even the most deluded of minds could ever dream up the death of innocent Liam Payne. He's dead, his mind declares. And then his resolve crumbles.

Louis lays on Liam's side of the bed, curling in on himself and doesn't even realize that he's crying until he feels a teardrop slide down his nose. He buries his face into Liam's pillow and let's out an anguished, loud cry. He cries because it's so bloody unfair. Liam was the most devoted person to The Movement that Louis has ever seen.

He might've not been the brightest intellectually, but Liam was bright. He was warm and comforting and he made Louis feel a little less alone. A little less like a monster. He fists the blanket and all he can see is red. The red of Liam's blood, and the red of his anger at The Movement. The red is emanating from him in swells and bursts. What made the Superiors decide that they could pick and choose who to kill off?

If they could kill Liam, then who else will they go after? His mum? Dan? His sisters? Everyone is innocent in this, and Louis just doesn't understand why the war between the Unconformists and The Movement can't stay distinctly between the two groups. Why does it have to pull in the people that are clueless as to what's happening? Why is murder the only option for them?

He feels like a pawn in a massive chess game between two looming figureheads. And it sucks. It hurts and it keeps hurting and he wants to stop having to play his cards right just to stay alive but knows that if he does stop then they'll most definitely kill his family and use him like a mindless robot to make their tech.

Louis doesn't know how long he's been crying, but sooner or later, a warm, familiar hand is sliding tentatively over his side. Louis glances up at an earnest Harry Styles, standing over him with a worried tilt to his brows.

At least he's not like Harry, he thinks. Harry's clueless, brainwashed into a mindless droid for The Movement. He's just as much of a pawn as Louis, and he doesn't know that. He doesn't know the importance of his gene, the amount of power that he'll have sooner or later. Harry was always the second option for everyone, he wasn't conditioned at all. Both sides always aimed for Gemma to take their father's place, never Harry. And the poor lad was thrown into this without any knowledge of the flawed Earth that they live in. He's just as much of an innocent person as Liam.

Harry writes on his scribe, holds it out to Louis for him to read. "Are you alright?"

No, Louis wants to scream. I'm not okay my mate is dead. Liam is dead. Louis just folds his lips and nods, lies straight to Harry's face.

Harry's face twists into a mask of disbelief that reminds Louis achingly of Gemma. He writes on his scribe.

"What's wrong?"

Louis turns over, staring straight at the ceiling. Half of him wants to tell Harry to get away from the bed, to try and keep this side of the room smelling strictly of Liam and nothing else. But he doesn't tell him that.

"I heard you crying all the way in my flat. Just tell me what's wrong, I just want to listen."

For some odd, unidentifiable reason, it feels like Harry with his too-wide eyes and pursed lips is steadily chipping at away the armor Louis has built around himself. Which, is dangerous. And confusing. But there's a small voice in the back of his head screeching to trust him, to just talk to him. So, Louis let's a single piece of armor fall and opens up, just a little.

"I'll tell you what's wrong." He sits up and looks at Harry dead on. "The way that we live is wrong. We used to live in this world we everyone was different from each other. Where people could express how they feel without being condemned. Where life wasn't mapped out for us from the day that we were born. A world where choice was a term that applied to more than what you might be eating for dinner tonight."

Harry's mouth pops open but he doesn't say anything, just nods for Louis to go on.

"And now we're in this world where people can only say four words per day, like, do you realize how fucked up that is? And I feel like such a privileged arsehole for being able to say three thousand per day when people in the past would be petrified at the thought of that. And then there's the fact that so many innocent people are being condemned for just trying to live with their basic rights as a human.

They're slapping silencers on kids these days, just for squeezing in an extra word. They're killing people at large to make a statement. It's all so fucked up and I can't live like this anymore. I don't want to live at all, anymore. Not in this world. I hate The Movement with every fiber of my being. If I had the opportunity to stab every single one of the Head Superiors to death then I would."

Louis rakes a deep breath, and Harry immediately begins to write furiously on his scribe.

"Don't say that. Don't say you want to die. Do you realize how many people have lost their lives unexpectedly and would do anything to have it back? If you don't want to live for yourself, at least live for the ones that have lost their chance."

Louis reads what Harry projected and nods. Harry stares at Louis for a bit, unblinkingly before reaching forward and cuffing Louis over the back of his head.

"Don't ever think like that again. You have so much to live for, Louis. Even if you are a bloody Unconformist."

Louis gives a small smile to Harry, and Harry smiles back grandly. His smile is like staring straight into the sun, blindingly bright.

"I have a question, though. What made you hate The Movement so much at first? Or were you just raised to be an Unconformist."

Louis slides his hand over the smooth edges that Liam made on his side of the duvet.

"I was risen into being an Unconformist. But I started really hating The Movement when I was fourteen." Louis gazes over at Harry before looking back up at the ceiling. "Unconformist territory had just became livable when I turned seven and a half. So we moved to the Outlands right when my Mum had a little girl. And it was like this amazing generation of people was going to be built up away from Movement influence and it was all just so promising. Like we'd finally start making a world where words weren't taken and individuality was encouraged.

Then, when my sister, Charlotte, was a little bit past seven, and we really thought the kids were safe and would keep all of their words forever. But then a massive tank came into the Outlands, and all of these people came storming into our homes with massive machine guns, and demanded that we gave them all of the children between ages six and ten that didn't have their wristbands.

We tried to hide Lottie, I remember hearing her cry from her hiding spot in the small attic just above my room. But they found her. They marched all of the kids into this straight line that stretched across the place where we had all of our Truth Talks and government meetings, and they shot all of the kids directly in the head, one by one. Lottie was one of the first ones to go."

"Oh my God, Louis -" Harry begins to project.

"Don't apologize. You didn't shoot her, did you? Anyways, we both have lost a sister thanks to The Movement, so we're even."

"But we don't know if Gemma's dead."

Louis smiles at Harry, poor, naïve Harry with a brand of optimism that's rare in a world like this. He used to believe that Gemma might be alive, too. But if they killed Liam, what would make them spare Gemma? The Movement is heartless and greedy. They'll go to great lengths to get back at anyone that crosses them.

"You're right, we don't know." Louis clears his throat.

The bed still feels like Liam, and his heart aches for all of the people in his life that he's lost. But he looks at Harry and a small fire ignites in his chest. Something tells him that if he plays his cards right, Harry might be the key to properly getting back at The Movement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments make me dance! hmu on [tumblr](http://voguelourry.tumblr.com)


	17. Chapter 17

Harry takes a steadying breath, tucking his scribe under his arm and schooling his expression to one of innocence. Simon Cowell is sat behind a monstrous, glass desk, fingers steepled together elegantly and his posture paired with the assessing look he's gliding over Harry's face all too commandeering. There has been a choking silence stretching across the room ever since Harry crossed the threshold of the Superior's office, and it's nerve-racking.

"You confuse me, Styles." Is what Simon decides to break the heavy pause with.

Harry opens his mouth to ask the obvious how, but Simon cuts him off with a single upraised hand. He arches his left eyebrow, like he's waiting to see if Harry will actually try to interrupt his crafted monologue.

"You confuse me because your actions never add up. During the day we see you acting like a good Citizen, following all orders and even your meal and sleep plan perfectly. But then, we receive footage of you helping a renowned Unconformist and mass murderer out of his holding cell."

Harry winces at that, clenching his fist and swallowing nervously. Simon's mouth tilts upwards into a ghost of a smirk.

"Surely you can see how you're an endless mystery to us at The Movement, Mr. Styles. It's almost like you don't even want to be a high ranking Superior."

"I do," Harry interjects before his mind can even think to stop himself.

"Do you really?" Simon leans forward in his white office chair. "Because I gave you an assignment months ago and you haven't even began to convert Louis Tomlinson to be a part of The Movement. We're doubting your faith in us, Styles."

"I'm trying but I just don't know how. You do realize that The Movement killed his sister?"

"Oh right, forgive me. I forgot that his rebellious sister was killed by The Movement. That changes everything!" Simon rolls his eyes openly. "It's not like Tomlinson didn't have a hand in killing over a thousand people that were mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters."

Harry stares down at his feet, feeling properly berated. Simon was right, Harry shouldn't defend Louis just on the account of the tragic loss of his sister. It's just. Realizing that Louis lost someone he loves to The Movement, too, makes Harry feel... closer, in a sense, to him. Like there's actually someone out there that has the same gaping hole in their chest from someone in their life that left much too early. It's odd and probably doesn't make sense, but ever since Louis' confession, Harry's been able to look into the steely blue of his eyes and find something relatable hidden there.

"Your punishment," Simon drags Harry out of his reverie with the low timber of his voice. "Is a decrease in both your meal size and sleep amount. We will return you to a normal level when you've proved your loyalty fully lies with us."

Harry inhales sharply, sparing a quick thought to how his stomach is already practically concave from sparse meal plan, and how he feels dead on his feet from the amount of sleep the alarms embedded in his flat are allowing him. But he nods, nonetheless. There's nothing he can do or say to change it.

"Very well, then. Have our little chat serve as a reminder to you that The Movement expects your wholehearted loyalty, and that we will accept nothing less."

Harry leaves Simon's office with what feels like an iron fist clenched around his heart.

;;

Harry tilts his head backwards, staring upwards towards the sun while a soft breeze press a few stray curls against his cheek. The heat is oddly sweltering today, and his shift guarding the doors of the Main HQ building has been near torture. It's usually bad enough to watch people walk past him nervously like he's something to be afraid of. But the skittish citizens mixed with the choking heat and his 'chat' with Simon earlier has made today borderline unbearable.

He keeps looking upwards, at the side of the building that he's leaned against. It's massive, basically. Sprawling up towards the sky, with a few security cameras branching out from the side of it. Harry zeroes in one of the cameras that looks like it's zooming in on him, and he feels like he's being watched. He thinks about his talk with Simon and realizes that he probably is being watched. Which probably means he should act like he's completely focused on his job.

He lets out a muffled sigh and drops his chin, deciding to get back to work. Raking his eyes over the sidewalk, watching as Citizens flit about on the course of their daily life. His eyes zero in on a girl, she looks around ten in age. She seems normal, mouth shut and following her Mum dutifully. But the thing off about her is her hands, she's moving them in odd shapes rapidly while making eye contact with the small boy beside her. The boy nods and moves his hands, too. Like he's answering her.

His stomach sinks and alarms go off in his head when he realizes that the children are using sign language. Typically, he would turn away and let it slide. They're just children, after all, they probably don't realize the severity of the illegal actions they're committing. But his conscious reminds him of the cameras all over the buildings and Simon's warning about how The Movement is watching him.

So he moves from his post, hand moving for the piece of plexiglass in his pocket to send in the appropriate code to HQ about the violation he's witnessing. He walks forward, driving his legs until he's caught the pace of the small family that's gained ground on the sidewalk. He puts his hand on the girls shoulder and she whips around immediately. The little boy stops, too, and the Mum continues to walk until she realizes the absence of the sounds of her children's footsteps following her.

Harry uses his hands on the children's shoulders to keep them in place as their Mum runs back to them, her eyebrows furrowed with worry. Harry looks down at the kids' eyes, which are both a warm hue of brown that's reminiscent of caramel and warm, winter nights.

He feels bile raise in the back of his throat when he realizes that what he's doing right now is going to forever change this boy and girl's lives for forever. Because of him turning them in they will know be seen as anomalies, up and coming Unconformists that threatens the precious structure of the world that The Movement has so carefully created. A pristine white shoe comes into his line of vision of Harry glances up to see his old Superior, with her tightly pinned back hair and cold eyes gazing back at him.

"Brent and Celeste Foreman?" His Superior asks the two kids. They nod slowly, Harry can feel the fear radiating off of them. "You are both being apprehend for engaging in the illegal action of communicating with sign language. Sign language is a nuisance to the infrastructure of The Movement, and also the language of the Unconformists. Engaging in such forms of contact is likened to terrorism in The Movement's eyes. Your punishment will be decided  in a court of law."

"No," their mother screeches, voice borderline hysterical. Her eyes are flitting between Harry and his old Superior in quick movements like that of a caged animal. "They're just children."

"Mrs. Foreman, are you attempting to defend Unconformist actions? You are aware that that is an obstruction of justice, which is punishable by law. Think carefully before you act any further, because I can assure you that the courts won't be half as merciful to you as they will be to your children."

The woman inhales like she was just punched in the gut, her eyes brimming with tears immediately. She shakes her head, mouthing a silent 'no' as Harry's old Superior tightens her hold against the girl, Celeste. Harry glances back down at the children to see both of them crying. Harry's heart clenches. What has he done?

"That's what I thought. You may continue with your daily duties, Mrs. Foreman. We will be taking your children to HQ." His old Superior clenches her jaw and watches as the mum openly weeps in front of them, slowly reaching out to touch her kids. "I said that you may leave, Mrs. Foreman."

She stares menacingly until Mrs. Foreman starts to slowly walk away. And that's when the kids start screaming.

"Mummy, no!" The younger boy screams, and the girl sobs out "Mum." Passing Citizens stop walking for a second, looking at the kids and the Superiors before walking ahead like nothing is happening.

"Styles, grab the boy. We just need to get them inside."

Harry swallows around the hot tears scorching in his throat and nods, placing his hands on both of the boy's shoulders as he starts to scream.

They both make choked off wheezing sounds for their Mum as Harry and his old Superior guides them into the building that Harry was just taking guard of.

"Well done, Mr. Styles," his old Superior contorts her face into the shadow of a grin after they handed off the crying children to a waiting Superior that was just inside. "I always knew you had some promise in you."

Harry nods, but he can't really fathom how she can seem so happy with herself after they just ruined two children's lives. Maybe it's because it's entirely Harry's fault, and not her's.

She pats him on the back and leans closer to him, whispering, "Don't worry, Harry, They're just testing you." before walking away from him.

Harry's too torn up inside to really take her words to heart.

;;

"Alright, then." Louis curls in on himself on the corner of Harry's couch, small hand clutching a cup of steaming tea closely to his chest. "Try and convince me."

Harry adjusts the thought censors on his head and takes a deep breath, "Well. Have you ever thought about how The Movement has created the first government system to ever have lasted this long without a single event to truly threaten the way it's ran?"

"That's only because The Movement doesn't allow anyone to have the ability to truly question the way that the government is ran. And the people that do question it are typically killed nearly immediately."

Harry huffs and grabs an elastic off his wrist and uses it to tie his hair back and out of his face.

"The Movement allows us to be happy, they literally give us anything we ask for and no one suffers from poverty or illness because of it. The only people in this system that are unhappy are the people that actively look for reasons to be upset."

Louis scoffs and takes a long, dramatic sip from his tea. Harry sits and watches him.

He has gotten oddly used to Louis and his ominous presence over the past few weeks. He continuously flits into Harry's flat without even knocking and camps out on Harry's couch while drinking his tea, spending hours on end to tell Harry about Unconformists and how Harry should definitely become one. He's still annoying as fuck, and he's still an Unconformist and also a certifiable mass murderer. But, Harry doesn't kick him out because it's nice to have physical company other than Dusty every once in a while. Especially since he hasn't even seen Liam in quite a bit of time. Every time Harry asks Louis about it, Louis just shuts down and finds an excuse to leave immediately.

Louis is eccentric, too loud, and leaves a mess wherever he goes. He's brash and makes crude comments about Harry's hair and is a total twat at the best of times. He boasts that he knows more than Harry continuously and always gives vague monologues about the 'importance that Harry has for the Unconformists.' But he can also be nice, sometimes giving Harry some of his own meager portions of rice when he thinks that Harry looks 'too skinny' and laughing at some of Harry's jokes so hard that his eyes crinkle up at the sides. A part of Harry can see Louis as a friend, and that's what terrifies him.

Which is why after his chat with Simon and the... altercation with the rebellious children that Harry does not let himself think about, Harry rushed home to see Louis balancing Dusty on his chest while watching Harry's television when he put on the thought censors and told Louis that tonight was his turn to convince Louis to be loyal to The Movement. In turn, Louis had rolled his eyes, got up to make tea that Harry is pretty sure is illegal, and came back before agreeing.

The convincing isn't turning out as well as Harry had planned. Turns out, Louis has a rebuttal for everything.

"The Unconformists aren't actively looking for anything. We're just aware of our basic rights that we are entitled to as human beings. We should be able to express ourselves freely. We should be able to meet new people and learn about them. We are entitled to be unique and free. But instead The Movement condenses everyone into this subhuman droid, this personality-less empty void of human space that doesn't even realize how much their life is lacking until it's much, much too late."

"We're the way we are to ensure our own safety. When people are allowed to speak freely and think freely then we become dangerous. We question everything until we believe in nothing. And then we act out and hurt everyone else." Harry shakes his head and picks up Dusty from the floor, rubbing his knuckles between her ears. "Have you ever thought about how much Superiors help Citizens by keeping them safe from all terroristic threats?"

"Do you really feel that way, Harry?" Louis sets down his cuppa and looks Harry dead in the eyes. "Tell me honestly, as someone that you can trust that won't go tattling to The Movement, how do you feel every day as you work as a Superior?"

Harry stares steadfastly down at Dusty's matted fur.  He thinks about traveling back in time and injecting Gemma, he thinks about the day when he emitted high voltage shocks of electricity to Louis' brain, he thinks of the two children that will probably have their hands chopped off because of him reporting them.

"I feel like I hate myself a little more each and every day." Harry whispers.

"You don't have to feel like that, H. I know this seems like I'm just talking pure shit just to get you on my side." Louis moves closer to Harry on the couch. "I'm telling you this because for some insane reason, I care about you. And I can see how you're mentally tearing yourself apart every day. You don't have to do this to yourself."

Harry swallows back a fresh round of tears that's threatening to rip from the depths of him. He feels like a little boy back when their family took a holiday to visit the ocean. Like when he got stuck in a riptide. Like this fast current that runs opposite of the cresting waves has swept him off his feet until he couldn't control his body, and all he can do is give into the fast water throwing him around like a rag doll, swallowing salt water while tears burn at his eyes because he's completely lost on what to do.

He remembers that Gemma called out to him and told him how to get out of it, but she's not here now. Gemma's never going to give him advice ever again. That, more than this choking sadness, more than anything, is what makes him succumb to the riptide and just drown.

"Gemma wouldn't want to see you like this either," Louis says softly, as if he was reading Harry's mind.

Harry shakes his head, meeting Louis' incandescently blue eyes that look nearly soft at this moment in time.

"I don't have a choice. Even if I didn't want to be like this, I don't have a choice."

"Yes you do, Harry. You're the one person in this entire clusterfuck of a society that actually has a choice." Louis shakes his head in disbelief. "Everyone else's lives was already decided for them, even mine. But you -- you're different, Harry."

"I'm not, I'm really not. I'm just like every other Citizen. I'm not brave, I'm not unique, I don't have any idea of what's going on around me. I would be more than happy to just blend in."

"You're special, Harry. You have something that no one else in this entire universe has. And I'm going to show you that."

"How?"

Louis' eyes crinkle as he smiles. "I'm going to take you to the Outlands."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: animal death!! it's towards the end but message me on tumblr if you want a summary.

It doesn't quite click in Harry's mind that what he's doing with Louis is most definitely both dangerous and illegal until he is having his eye scanned in a nondescript, small room that's placed on the borders of his very own pod.

Louis is standing to the left of him, glancing over his shoulder cautiously while his fingers twitch uselessly at his sides. Harry can practically feel the unused energy radiating off of Louis, and it makes him feel nervous. Like he's taking a step across a threshold that he'll never be able to retrace, and a cold slab of dread is clawing it's way up his throat as Louis informs him that their transport will arrive shortly and then they can begin their trek to the Outlands.

"Will you stop that?" Louis' voice cuts into his thoughts like glass.

Harry startles and tries not to blink, because Louis will probably have his head if he messes up the eye scan for the third (or maybe seventh, he's not too good with counting) time.

"Stop what?"

"That thing that you do that makes me feel like you're a second away from ripping out all of your hair." Louis flutters his hand in Harry's general direction. "Which would be a right shame, seeing as your hair is your best quality."

Harry feels his cheeks flood with heat for some odd reason, and Louis laughs at him, a high tinkling cackle that sounds as soothing as the cadence of waves crashing against a shore. His laugh makes him feel oddly warm, and Harry doesn't know what to make of it. He just knows that moments like this,  ones in which Louis stares steadily at the side of his face with this indiscernibly soft smile  while Harry bumbles like an idiot under the unprecedented attention, have been happening more and more often. He isn't quite sure of what he is supposed to make of it.

"You do realize what we are about to do, right? We're going to The Outlands; this is insanely illegal. Quite frankly, I feel like I'm an idiot for even agreeing to this, let alone allowing you to put me into the system so that I am permitted on your sketchy little transport track. I am risking my entire life by doing this." Harry inhales shakily and takes a step back from the practically prehistoric database monitors, the severity of the entire situation finally truly dawning on him. "I really shouldn't do this. I can't believe that I have even gotten this far. What would my Mum think?" What would The Movement think?

"Harry," Louis cuts him off with an odd sense of lilting force engulfing his tone. "Just because you're coming to The Outlands doesn't make you an Unconformist. Only your decision to become an Unconformist will ever make you one."

"I don't think that it works like that, Louis." Harry frowns down at his own mildly scuffed plainclothes boots. "It's not about what I think, it's about what The Movement thinks. Because they're typically always right."

Louis just shakes his head, "I can't wait until the day that you realize that not everything is so black and white."

Harry isn't sure what he means, but he doesn't have to fret about because Louis is pressing his fist against a button and a pair of massive, steel doors slowly creak open. Louis crosses the threshold out of the building with sure steps and his chin tilted up towards the startling sunlight. Harry stumbles after him, squinting at the horizon and the mass of reflective grey hurdling towards them on a paved track.

"Port's here," Louis mumbles under his breath before taking another step forward to the platform.

The transport ceases in front of them with an inordinately loud screech of it's brakes. Louis strides over in front of the battered doors to the dingy port and scans his hand and then his eyes. He tilts his chin, bidding Harry to follow suit. After they are both finished scanning and a mechanic voice chimes 'Access granted', the doors groan while they slide open and Louis makes an exuberant gesture for Harry to walk in first.

The port is desolate at best. With battered plastic seats slapped against both sides of the interior and bad fluorescent lighting that casts a yellowish glare over everything. Harry stands in the middle of the cracked floor as Louis strides in behind him and sweeps his eyes across the entire port before rapping his knuckles against the door to what Harry assumes is the cockpit.

Louis walks into the cockpit to where Harry can't see him anymore, but he leaves the door open after him. Harry is unsure if he's supposed to follow him or not, so he dawdles awkwardly a few steps away from the door before deciding to force himself to look like he isn't really a few milliseconds from an actual panic attack. He sits precariously on the edge of one of the seats and stares intently at his own scuffed shoes while the muffled sounds of Louis' animated voice slowly branches out to his ears.

A handful of minutes later, Louis comes back with red cheeks and a manic smile. Harry doesn't know whether to be endeared or nervous when he meets his eyes and his smile is beamed directly at him. Louis plops down beside him and pats Harry's knee in a manner of reassurance.

And that's another thing with Louis that's changing lately. The more time they spend together (which is becoming inordinate in amount), the more comfortable Louis seems to be with him. And supposedly Louis' comfortability with him goes hand in hand with him being more tactile with Harry, as well. The mindless touches and ever-present warmth of Louis' smaller but fervid hands have been becoming more and more frequent ever since Louis spent the night in Harry's flat under the pretense of adding more words to Harry's count and they ended up falling asleep on Harry's couch, their legs tangled together as Dusty purred lazily by their feet.

"You're staring," Louis informs him bluntly.

Harry clears his throat and steers his eyes to stare at the opposite side of the port. He swallows before finally working up the courage to say something. Sometimes he forgets that he has 200 words now, that he isn't limited to choppy half sentences anymore. It's a massive transition, but he can't complain. Not when people like his Mum have to constantly weigh their thoughts on whether it's worth it to tell someone they love them or not.

"What is going to happen when I go to the Outlands?"

"Nothing." Louis states bluntly. "I'm not taking you to any Truth Talks or anything crazy like that. I'm just going to show you what the Outlands are like. Maybe I'll have you speak to Paul, and then I'll take you home."

"Then why're you making such a big deal about taking me there, then?"

Harry glances back at Louis just in time to see him pursing his lips together and raking a hand through his messy hair.

"You'll just have to wait and see," is all Louis gives him.

;;

Louis pries his fingers in between the jammed doors of the port and shoves them apart in what seems like hours later. Harry stands and glances over his shoulder but only catches a glimpse of the same dazzling, bright blue sky that he sees every single morning when he walks to work. Louis hops off of the threshold of the port and turns back to face Harry.

"Welcome to the Outlands," Louis grins and sweeps his hand in a grand gesture towards the sprawling area behind him.

Harry steps off of the platform and puts his hand over his eyes to shield from the harsh sunlight before assessing the Outlands for himself. And it's... Not as impressive as he envisioned it in his head. For some reason he imagined a plethora of people dressed in black and toting around huge guns with multiple anti-Movement projections blown up against huge, domineering buildings.

Instead, the Outlands looks painstakingly like the leftover rubble from the Dark Era's massive bombings. Massive grey buildings with huge chunks of wall out of them seem to be a staple throughout what he can see of the Outlands from this vantage point. Harry keeps his eyes steady on the rubble, looking for a sign of any other life aside from him and Louis, but doesn't find any. He drives his gaze back down to the ground and flinches when he realizes that his foot is insanely close to what appears to be a decaying human skull.

Louis taps him on the shoulder thrice with delicate fingers before ducking into his line of vision. He holds up a circular plastic band in front of him, his mouth forming into an apologetic smile. He stands on his toes and slides the band over Harry's head.

"Sorry, it's just a causality. Since you're still a raging follower of the dreaded Movement, we can't trust you enough to let you know how to get to our actual facilities." Louis explains as he fastens the band over Harry's eyes, effectively cutting off his ability to see.

Louis puts his hand on Harry's lower back and guides him forward. They walk for what feels like ages and with every step they take it feels more and more surreal. He's actually doing this, he's broadly defying The Movement and it makes him feel sick. He shouldn't be doing this. He's supposed to be making progress in converting Louis into a proper citizen, yet somehow he's found himself in the lion's den for Unconformists with sweat building under his shirt collar and a blindfold on while one of the most infamous Rebels leads him to a place he's never been before.

"We're nearly there," Louis informs him a few minutes later, and a few more minutes after that, he can hear the brisk sounds of civilization.

What's weird is that it sounds like how it does at home. The whirr of hover boards overhead grouped with a multitude of footsteps and the muffled sounds of doors being shut and closed, as well as a few children speaking amongst each other -- but still, it's the mundane quiet that Harry is used to.

"Alright," Louis pulls on the hem of shirt to make him stop walking. Harry stands stock-still as he feels deft fingers weaving into his curls before a mechanical beep sounds and the band is finally off of his face. Harry squints as he readjusts to the staggering sunlight before looking down at Louis, who is stood right in front of him, just a few mere inches a way. His nose is at level with my lips, Harry notes for some odd reason. "Let's go."

Louis leads him into a building and to an unmarked door. He opens it to reveal several flights of stairs going downwards. Harry furrows his brows down at the steps.

"I thought you said this Paul lad was important? Wouldn't he be set up further --"

"In the Outlands' HQ, we do things differently. The more important you are, the lower your office is in the building. It's for protection for any possible air strikes. We don't want our leaders stuck up in the air like defenseless martyrs. "

Harry nods, slightly surprised at the amount of sense that Louis makes before following him down the stairs. They go down enough flights to make Harry's legs ache and a sheen of sweat to appear on his forehead. Louis, of course, seems entirely unaffected. Half of Harry believes that Louis is actually a rogue android that is immune to human things like sweat and appearing weak.

Louis stops on what appears to be the last flight of steps and presses his hand to a scanner before punching in a code. The door groans in protest as it automatically opens to reveal a massive, oddly-mahogany colored desk in an ordinate room. A leather chair turns to face them with a certain brand of dramatic flair that Harry isn't that surprised by.

"Harry Styles?" The man asks, Harry notes that one of Louis' thought sensors is stuck proudly to his temples. "Ah, sit. I'm Paul, as you probably know from Louis here. I'm not giving you my last name for obvious confidential reasons."

Paul With-No-Last-Name-Given is an intimidating man based solely off of his looks alone. He has a reddish tint to his skin in the low lighting of the office, dark hair that is slowly thinning around his ears,  and biceps that appear to be the size of Harry's head sticking out of his tight black shirt. He's not even attempting to smile for the sake of manners as Harry perches onto one of the surprisingly plush seats. Instead he settles a calculating look on Harry, like he's analyzing something about him based off just his face.

"I can see it, the resemblance between you and your grandfather." Paul states after what feels like an endless stretch of silence. "Do you have his strong loyalty, though? That's what We need to know."

"My grandfather?" Harry echoes and looks at Louis in confusion. All he gets in return is an uneasy shrug before Louis looks back at Paul and engages in some sort of silent conversation with him. "What does my grandfather have to do with anything?"

"You see, H --" Louis begins but is cut off by Paul.

"See, this is why I've never been a fan of your family, Styles. You're always much too late to understand what's happening and you're always so stubborn. You have to be groomed into being a knowledgeable symbol, but even then, we still have to constantly remind you what's right and what's wrong."

Harry flounders for what to say -- how is he even supposed to respond to that? What does this prick of an Unconformist even mean? -- or how to even react to Paul's words.

"Don't be a twat, Paul." Louis responds for him. "He doesn't know because no one has told him. And I brought him to your arse because I thought maybe you'd be helpful in explaining it all to him." Louis stands and narrows his eyes, looking disgusted by the mere sight of the man behind the desk. "Obviously, I was mistaken."

"You are not mistaken and you will sit down and be respectful to your leader --"

"You're not my leader! You're not anyone's leader. No one has ever deemed you as such and any Unconformist that would vote for you to lead us is clearly off their hat. Just because you're the last sane Elder we have left doesn't mean that I'll become a mindless slave to you. You're a tyrant, Paul, and the only reason that you're even in the Outlands is because The Movement didn't want you to lead either. Quite funny how the only thing I'll ever agree with The Movement on is how you are a bumbling fool with a good last name, but no worth to back it up with."

Paul stands, visibly shaking with anger as his face reddens.  "Tomlinson you are not as invincible as you believe you are so you can shut your gaping mouth before I have your precious family shunned from the Outlands."

"Stop it!" Harry near-screams and stands up, too, looking both of the angry men in the eye as his heart thuds quickly from the stress of the situation. "Look, I have no idea what's going on here or why I am even here. But I do know that you both yelling like hot-headed rebels is not convincing me in any way to want to join your forces. Now get your heads on straight and act like proper adults before I leave the Outlands and tell The Movement that I know where the Unconformists' HQ is based at."

It's an empty threat, he would never do it, Harry knows that and Louis knows that; but Paul doesn't. Paul rakes in a deep sigh, and his eyes look clouded over for a second as he sits down. Louis sits down as well. Harry feels strangely out of breath.

"Did you see that?" Louis asks Paul after a few moments of silence. "That is why we need him on our side. His voice is a weapon and we would be idiots to not utilize that. Face it: his grandfather has near lost his sanity and... Gemma isn't coming back. He's our last hope. No one would listen to us, with our tempers and gritty faces. But him;" Louis points at Harry with his thumb. "He can start a revolution with one word."

Paul sighs and stares at Harry for a few moments before looking back at Louis. "You said he doesn't know his abilities yet?"

"He hardly knows anything. But once he does know, I'm sure he'll side with us."

Paul smacks his hand on a heavily outdated scribe, seeming like he has no more interest in Harry or Louis anymore.

"Take him to see the others and tell the lad about his father. I expect a progress report sent to me by the end of the month." Paul dismisses them and Louis stands, Harry realizes just then that he never actually sat down. Oh well. "Go."

They leave and as soon as they're on the last flight of stairs before being back at ground level, Louis turns and kicks the wall. He immediately curls in on himself and holds his foot in pain, the idiot. Harry wraps his arm around his shoulder hesitantly before Louis falls flat on the floor.

"What in the hell was that for?" Harry asks.

"I'm just tired, alright? I'm tired of the  _ 'you're not invincible, Tomlinson'  _ speeches and the way I'm being used like a pawn in this massive chess game and I just feel sick of it." Louis shakes himself out of Harry's grip and faces the wall again. "And I'm really," he kicks the wall, "fucking" another kick, "done" Harry pulls him back before he kicks the wall again, this time. "with how they keep threatening my family! They're fucking innocent and they've never hurt anyone so why do they think it's okay to act like their lives aren't really worth value? Why is it that the innocent ones always get hurt? Why --"

Harry shoves Louis' smaller, trembling body into an albeit slightly awkward embrace just as soon as he starts sobbing. He hasn't seen Louis like this, so vulnerable and delicately fearful ever since the night that he snuck into Harry's flat and shared his bed. Harry rubs his matted hair as Louis' sobs turn into near screams, and uselessly tries to shush him.

"They would never hurt someone that's innocent, Lou." the nickname slips easily off of his tongue as

he forces his voice into a soothing tone. "I'd like to think that both sides are better than that."

"They're not," Louis sobs. "They're really not."

//

After they have stopped in a public restroom in the HQ building for Louis to wash his face and give himself an excessive amount (according to Harry) of verbal pep talks, they finally leave the building and Harry is allowed to really look at the setup of the Outlands. The scenery was surprisingly outdated and overwhelmingly bleak.

The massive amounts of rubble from the wars was cleared out to make room for the city, it appears, and the crumbling walls and debris borders around the entire place like a wall or shield of some sort. The buildings are all the same washed-up grey as the rubble (Louis explained that that is because they try to camouflage the Outlands with the rubble so that it's more difficult for any possible hovercraft to detect the city from the air). Some people had silencers, and those similarly had torn clothes that were in a serious need of a washing, and usually walked alone. Some people didn't, and they typically walked in groups and used sign language and looked like everyday citizens that Harry would see in his own Pod.

And then there was the people without hands. Harry was familiar with the laws against sign language, of course, but he had never actually seen someone that actually had their hands cut off from breaking the law until today. They typically had silencers, too, so it's evident that they had no means to speak to anyone else, at all. They looked the most worn down, Harry thinks, sadness was evident in the lines of their faces and they walked around the Outlands looking like they weren't even alive.  It pained him to watch them.

All of the tech looked severely outdated and like they could blend in with the rubble, too. Louis explained to Harry that they use old scribes and tech because The Movement doesn't have the capability to track such outdated devices because before a few decades ago, The Movement didn't sponsor all of the tech companies so they couldn't install software to monitor their citizens activities. He also said that the old tech was really expensive on the black market, and was actually one of their main sources for economy.

They didn't all look sad and worn down, though. Surprisingly, a lot of them looked happy -especially the children- as they ran through the unpaved streets without a care and didn't have to think twice about the way they interacted with others. It's like there's a different brand of oxygen in the Outlands, one that makes you exhale conformity and inhale freedom. It's slightly addictive and Harry has to steadily remind himself that even if these people do appear free and without inhibitions, they are still lawbreakers and the smiling parents that are toting their talkative children around on their backs will probably be incarcerated for a long period of time once they are found out. He doubts that the small amounts of freedom are worth the inevitable punishment that all of these people will face.

Louis brings Harry out of his thoughts with a hand on his shoulder that's stopping him from walking forward.

"This is our last stop in the Outlands." Louis tells him before knocking on the door loudly with a closed fist. "I should probably prepare you for what you're about to see, but I have no idea how to."

Louis smiles toothily at him, and if it wasn't for how his eyes were slightly puffy around the corners, Harry would hardly be able to compare him to the sobbing, trembling mess of a boy that he held in his arms a mere hour ago. He can put on a good mask, Harry notes, he could fool anyone into believing that he doesn't have the slightest care in the world. But he does, Harry knows, Louis cares more for the wellbeing of others than anyone else could ever fathom.

The door opens to reveal a girl with threatening eyebrows and a wide smile once she spots Louis.  Harry peers over their shoulders as they hug in greeting to search for the weird sounds that is permeating from the building. It's a mess of a woman speaking in an odd, breathy tone with a bunch of whirrs and melodic sounds that Harry has never heard before.

The girl with the eyebrows leads them inside and the woman's voice and the hypnotic sounds get louder, the walls of the massive room she leads them into are bright. A melancholy of unearthly colors splattered against the wall in a pleasing way that makes the room seem even more energetic than it already does with the hoards of people lounging around on brightly printed couches or moving their bodies in weird motions in time with the voice and the sounds.

"What is that sound?" Harry asks Louis.

"That sound is music, Harry. And this --" Louis gestures wildly at the room. "-- is creativity and expression. Which is what we want for the entire future generations to be exposed to."

"Music?" Harry echoes.

"It's something that was used in the Dark Ages to express their feelings in a way that everyone else will listen and feel inspired by. I hacked into one of the ancient computers and found a way to stream it to our Centre." What Louis is saying doesn't make sense to Harry at all, but he looks so proud of himself that Harry can't help but smile a bit. Louis stands on a table and waves his arms until the sounds (music) finally gets lower in volume.

"Lads, ladies, and everyone in between: I want you to welcome Harry. He's one of us and should be treated like such. Can all of the Formulated please meet me in the den?"  Louis searches the crowd before smiling and hopping off of the table. "Proceed!" he yells, and the music is turned up once again.

Louis leads him through a few narrow (and brightly painted) hallways before they reach a small living room that is overstuffed with a multitude of couches. He sits on a couch that is in the dead center of the room and pulls Harry down to sit right beside him. Ten more people follow and sit on their own couches, one of them being Zayn, who spares a small smile at Harry in greeting before sitting.

The girl with the eyebrows sits on the couch beside Harry, he glances down at her wrist and instead of seeing a bracelet like how he expected he sees nothing. Harry realizes that she must've been a Superior before she declared herself an Unconformist.

"You're Gemma's brother," she states simply. "I can tell by your eyes."

"I am," Harry nods and outstretches his hand for her to shake. "And you are?"

She ignores Harry's hand completely. "I'm Cara. I was... close with your sister. Do you know where she went?"

"I don't," Harry says, putting his hand back in his lap.

Her eyes look as heartbroken as Harry feels whenever Gemma is mentioned. He wonders what Cara was to Gemma, if Gemma knew how many people she was leaving behind when she left. He also wonders if Gemma would be happy now, seeing Harry sat with a bunch of Unconformists and his thigh pressed to Louis' as something bigger than him obviously begins to take place. A part of him wonders if that's what she always wanted,  that she wanted him to meet these people and know Cara's name and that they were close. It helps him feel a little more at ease, thinking like this. Like Gemma is here and protecting him even though she really isn't.

"Obviously, you guys know who Harry is." Louis states, and all of the attention is zeroed in on him in the room. "And you know who Gemma is, of course. The true reason why I've brought him here is to help Harry find out who he is."

Louis turns to Harry with a serious look in his eyes, "I've told you about how they mate people based off their genes, Haz, and how they've bred an elite group of people to be the next foundation for The Movements system. You remember all of that, right?"

Harry nods slowly, biting back his own retort that he isn't an idiot because he doubts it'd be a smart move to test Louis Tomlinson in a room full of people that obviously admire him.

"Well, here's your elite, genetically-enhanced squadron of future leaders for our government. We call ourselves the Formulated Ones for ironic reasons, and we want you to join us. We all have had our times when we've had to sit down and learn that we're different than everyone else in this grey world, and this is your's."

A girl with blonde hair and wide, blue eyes leans forward. She has thought sensors on her head and a small smile playing at her lips.

"Harry, you have a gift that makes you literally the most sought after for both the Unconformists and The Movement. You have your voice. The timbre of your voice grouped with your charisma makes you able to inflict a type of mind control on whoever happens to hear it." The girl's eyes widen even further. "With your genes, you can groom thousands into soldiers for a revolution."

Harry laughs, that's insane. That's not possible. Mind control is -- well, it's impossible, quite frankly, and he definitely can't even begin to try and convince someone to do something he wants. Or else he would have converted Louis to be a loyal Citizen ages ago.

"Do you remember when we worked together and that little boy panicked and struggled so that he wouldn't get his words taken away? And the Superior couldn't contain him and he only stopped when you told him to? You used your control then, Harry. And I'm sure you've unknowingly used it other times before.  You don't have the knack for manipulating your voice when you want to, yet, but we can help you." Zayn projects, eyes imploringly wide and strangely warm. "It took me ages before I was able to control my abilities to empathize with other people and detect their feelings. But with everyone's help, I could. And you can, too."

"Also, if you stay up The Movement's arses, they'll use you like a brainless object for their own personal gain. With us, you'll actually be able to add colour to your life. You'll be free." A boy that hasn't spoken before but also doesn't have a bracelet like Cara says.

"It's what Gemma would want you to do," another girl projects with an old scribe.

"Don't do that," Cara snaps from beside him. "Don't you dare use Gem like a method of persuasion for your personal gain. Just because she isn't here doesn't mean she can be used." Cara turns to Harry with a fierce look of determination in her eyes. "Harry, I will tell you what your sister would want you to know. What we're telling you about your voice is true and not a joke, we wouldn't be risking your life by bringing you out here if it was one. We're not total dicks. I want you to take everything we've told you seriously and go home and have a long mental process about what all we've told you and where you want to go from here. You decide what you want and don't let anyone sway your final decision. Just remember that you have a choice, and none of us have ever had a choice on which side we could choose in the end. But you do, so you shouldn't abuse it."

Cara swallows and sits back in her seat. It's quiet for a few moments and Harry can tell why Gemma would choose to be close to her.

"Thank you, Cara. Does anybody else have something to add?" Louis asks the room at large.

No one says anything, Louis stands up and Harry mirrors him.

"Well I'm going to take Curly home. I'll visit you lot soon, please remind everyone that food supplies will lessen as the weather changes, and meals will be cut down by a fourth in size for the time being."

With that, Louis leads him out of the room. Harry turns back in time to catch Cara's eyes and mouth  _ "Thank you,"  _ to her.

//

"I know why your father abandoned you," Louis says as soon as the port starts to set into motion back to their pod.

Harry chokes on air and glances back at him, eyes wide. He's never told Louis about that. He has never told anyone about his father. And he knows that Louis wouldn't be able to know from Gemma because Gemma was gone before their father left.

"It's because your grandfather committed treason, of sorts. He was the voice, you know, the one that narrates all of the documentaries about how The Movement kicks arse and Unconformists suck and all of that load of shit. But then one day he was approached by one of our Elders, who converted him to being an Unconformist. He used the alibi that he was going insane -- which he truly was, and still is -- and switched to the Unconformists' side to help stream propaganda whenever we can to seed ideas of converting into Rebels. He hasn't been able to properly manipulate for years now, so your grandfather is practically useless, but we still use him as a threat whenever we can, because The Movement hates that we were able to nearly steal two of their precious Controllers."

"Anyways, after your Grandfather left, your father was next in line to be the token controller. So his voice is the one you hear all the time on the telly, even though you probably don't recognize it because of how he changes timbre. Your Father left your family to work for The Movement full time. Of course, he loved your Mum and you too much to just up and leave, so they brainwashed him. They made him eat less and less and threatened him until he left you all. This is why they hardly feed you and didn't give you a mate, they wanted you to live a life that you wouldn't be attached to so that they can pluck you out of it whenever need be. They have him trapped in this false reality where your family doesn't even truly exist to him. And, rumor has it, the conditions they have put him under for all of these years has made him to where he's extremely ill and near the brink of death. That's why they're in such a hurry to get you groomed to replace Des, you're their last hope."

Harry stays silent for a long time. Repeating each word Louis has just said in his mind until the words are practically void of meaning. He didn't want to leave, they brainwashed him, they're currently brainwashing me, and now he's about to die. His first instinct is to tell his Mum in hopes that it'd give her a sense of closure. But he decides against it; she loved him so much and talking about his dad will just reopen deep, hardly healed wounds.

He doesn't know whether he wants to cry or scream, so he doesn't do either. He  just sits quietly and verbally reminds himself that this is not real. It couldn't be real. Harry doesn't have any power, his father was never brainwashed, and neither was he. He lives in a simple world and follows a simple government that ensures peace and stability for everyone. This world that Louis is trying to expose him to isn't real. There's no way that it can be. It's implausible. The Movement isn't complicated; it's easy and efficient-- and that's why it has thrived for so long.

**_LOUIS' POV:_ **

Louis is quite positive that he accidentally broke Harry Styles. Which, is a total shame. He was actually growing pretty fond of the lad. After Louis tells him everything about his father, he stays quiet for an extremely long time. And then he starts to shake. At first Harry's leg is jiggling up and down and then his entire body is shaking so hard that he's constantly bumping into Louis' shoulder and he doesn't even seem aware.

Louis is at a loss on what to do so he does the only thing that calmed down Fizzy when she started having panic attacks when she was little and stress of being an Unconformist became too much for her. He twines his hand in Harry's long curls and slowly rubs at his scalp while making soothing humming sounds.

He doesn't know if it's comforting Harry at all, seeing as he doesn't stop shaking until the port is back at their stop. But he does know that it comforts himself a bit to feel like he's helping him, so he doesn't stop pulling gently at the tangles in Harry's soft curls until the port has ceased to move and the voice system informs them that the port will return back to the Outlands in five minutes.

"Cmon Hazza," Louis says gently, using his free hand to lightly shake Harry's shoulder. "Let's get you home, alright? I'll get you some tea then you can go to sleep and let all of this digest, yeah?"

Harry finally looks up from where he was staring at his God-awful boots and nods mutely at Louis' words. Louis stands and holds out a hand for Harry to take, and when he finally does, Louis pulls him up and leads him out of the port station.

Harry is silent for the entirety of the walk towards their flat building. And he gives Louis a small wave in parting grouped with a wane smile before he shuffles into his own flat. Louis sighs before turning to his own door and weighing his options.

He can either go into his flat look at absolutely nothing and not think about anything for the entirety of the time he's in there while he makes Harry some tea and then leave, or he can go to his Mum's instead and steadily ignore the fact that his flat is missing a very integral part that makes it feel more like home. He starts to walk away from the door, but his mind flashes to an image of Harry huddled sadly on his couch, slowly sorting through the onslaught of information that was thrown at him today. Louis sighs and thumbs the code to unlock his door, because he knows that no one should have to deal with that alone.

He practically sprints through the flat until he's in the kitchen before grabbing a teacup that he knows for sure wasn't one of Liam's favorites and dumping a bag of contraband tea that he nicked from a supplier a few weeks ago into the boiling water. He takes off his shoes and socks and stays in the kitchen, steadily staring out of the window and not daring to think about anything else until the kettle whistles. He adds milk to Harry's tea before walking out of his flat and efficiently breaking into Harry's.

He's met with the sight of Harry letting out gut-wrenching sobs while cradling his oddly limp cat, Dusty. Harry's eyes snap up towards him, alarmingly green and red rimmed while big, fat tears run down his flushed cheeks. Louis sets the tea down on the coffee table and crouches so that he's eye level with Harry.

"Haz," Louis tries to touch Harry's hand but comes in contact with his very-still and definitely not alive cat instead. "Oh go-"

"She's dead!" Harry sobs loudly, a stray tear rolls off his chin and lands on Louis' barefoot. "She's all I had left and my baby is dead. She's the only one -- she was the only thing that was always there and was always the same and she's dead."

"H-Haz," Louis croaks, his own throat feeling heavy with the promise of tears. "Love, please breathe, you need to calm down."

"I can't calm down! She kept me sane! She made me feel like less of a monster! I loved her so much and she's gone, she's gone." Harry strokes Dusty's small head so tenderly that Louis feels his own heart break a million times. "What will I do without her? How can I survive? She's all I had, she's the only way I felt warm. What will I --"

Harry is cut off because he doesn't have any words left, and he's left making sad wheezing sounds while sobbing over the loss of his cat and Louis has never seen a picture sadder than the one before him. He knows that Harry loved Dusty with all of his heart and treated her like a child, and that's what makes it all the more painful.

Looking into Harry's tear-filled eyes as tears of his own rolled down his cheeks made him think about when he lost Liam. He felt so lost and alone -- like a ship lost at sea without a compass to guide it, like a rope that didn't have an anchor to tie itself down to. He felt half empty and like there was no way he could even mimic the act of being strong again, and he hates to see Harry feeling the same way he did; the same way that he still does feel, even if he is in denial.

Harry looks so vulnerable and alone, like a lost deer that's trying to make sense of the world around him. The low lighting in the flat that permeates from the telly that harbors a warning on it makes Harry look like an angel, a lost angel with fumbling wings that just wants to find its way home. He looks fragile and delicate and like a mirror of Louis' fears and it scares him and makes him want to comfort Harry all at once.

Louis isn't sure on what he feels next or what sense overpowers him as he does the thing he does next. But it happens and he's not sure if he regrets it or not because it stills Harry's hysterical sobs for just one spare moment.

He leans forward and presses his lips against Harry's in a rush of adrenaline and panic and sorrow. It's probably a quick kiss but it feels like hours, when their lips are pliantly pressed against one another's and the only divvy between the intimate brush of their mouths is the salt from the tears. The most confusing thing is that Harry actually kisses him back. Harry has soft lips that feel like the comfort of coming home after a rainy day and a their lips fit together so nicely like the pieces of a puzzle. It's both electrifying and terrifying as they're pressed one another but it happens and the action can never be reversed now.

When Louis finally comes to his senses and pulls away from the kiss, he immediately starts apologizing. He trips over his own feet, eyes blurry with tears and sheer panic as he repeats that he's sorry over and over again. He feels like he's saying sorry to more than one person; he's saying sorry to Harry, to Gemma, to himself, to Liam.

He doesn't know what's wrong with him or what happened, he just knows that he needs out of this building immediately.


	19. Chapter 19

**_HARRY’S POV:_ **

It has been thirteen days since Dusty's death, and he's an utter and complete mess.

_ "What have you done, Harry?"  _ His mum projects from her scribe, and she's the picture of perfect, clueless innocence.

Harry stares at the full, rapidly cooling teacup before him and steadfastly ignores her question. I can't tell her, he rationalizes, I can't tell her or else she'll be disappointed in me. Harry inhales harshly through his mouth and shakes his head.

_ "Harry, please." _

What is he supposed to tell her? That he stupidly indulged an Unconformist and went to the Outlands? That he knows what happened to his father and that the love of her life is on the brink of death? That he is the reason why Dusty is dead? That his lips are still searing from where they brushed against those of a notorious, mated Unconformist?

Harry is a criminal, simply put. He heedlessly broke the laws that The Movement has implemented to keep peace throughout the nations, and what's worse is that he broke the laws without a cause. He's not an Unconformist with a deep-running hatred for The Movement that fuels all of his actions. No, he's just a normal person, a normal, idiotic person that has his hands on more power than he can handle.

"I shouldn't be here," is all Harry can spare his mother as an explanation, because it's true.

He should run, he knows that. He should gather all of his belongings and run as fast as he can away from his mother. He finally looks up into her eyes, her warm eyes that harbor the memories of stroking his hair to placate him when he was afraid, the same eyes that welled up with merciless rounds of tears after Gemma and his father was taken away from the safety of their home. He wasn't very close to his mother when he was young, but they became closer as he grow older, until she became the only person that Harry would run to if he was in trouble. Which is why he should run away, because she's the only one that he has left. She's the last person that they can snatch away from him to teach him a lesson, and he doesn't want to give them a reason to take her.

_ "The Movement wants you here." _

A desperate sound of despair breaks out from his throat, unbidden. "Mum. You don't understand; I have to leave. I don't want them to take you, too. "

_ "Harry," _ his mum projects, her eyes revealing worry when they meet his. A tendril of hair comes free from behind her ear, and she looks like a child. A bewildered child that is terrified of the world before her.  _ "What did you do?" _

"I..." Harry's voice cracks and he looks around the room aimlessly. "I can't say."

_ "Please." _

"Mum, They're watching. I know They are; They warned me."

And They did warn him, he knows that They did. He remembers it all vividly; the message was everywhere. Projecting all over his flat from the television screen, etched into Dusty's matted fur with every tear that spilled over his cheeks and onto her, reflecting in Louis' azure, passionate eyes in such a raw way that he'll never forget. They've been watching him for a long time, and They're not pleased with what they've seen. And Dusty's death is a reflection of their displeasure with him to fill it's fullest possible extent.

_ "They're always watching us, love. That's what They do." _ His mum reaches a warm hand forward and rests it on top of his own, pale one.  _ "But that doesn't tell me why They removed you from your own flat, or why They're not letting you eat." _

Harry's stomach turns painfully at the word eat, but he ignores the flaring pain. He's starting to accustom to the starving - he can overcome that; it's just the heartbreak over Dusty's departure that will take him years to be able to come to terms with. Dusty dying has created a hollow void in his chest, one that makes every inhale that he takes feel empty and useless. He just keeps expecting her to be here, slowly rubbing her small head against his hand asking to be rubbed while purring like a placated machine. And when he remembers that she's gone for good, his heart breaks tenfold all over again. Harry slides his hand out from beneath his mother's and fists his hair anxiously.

"I went to the Outlands." Harry says after a few moments of thick silence, willing for the tears that are threatening to leave his eyes to cease.

The thing is that it just feels so monumental for Harry to verbally acknowledge what he has done wrong. His palms are sweating nervously while small tufts of steam hit his chin from the cuppa that's sat beneath him, and it's just so quiet in the small kitchen with the scuffed  table and warm walls that Harry can hear the sounds of his own heart thrumming as quickly as a hummingbird's wings in his own ears. He listens as his Mum shifts in her chair across from him, probably crossing her legs, perhaps perching her chin on her hand, to lean against the table in a manner that she executes so often. He can feel her wide, innocent eyes assessing him,  tracing his features mentally and wondering what happened to her loyal son, and who is this strange, horrid man that has taken his place. Harry finds himself asking the very same questions to himself as the silence stays stagnant in the room.

_ Who am I, anymore?  _ he wonders to himself. He feels like he could spend countless hours staring at an empty wall and turning this very question over and over in his mind while searching every single crevice of his brain for an answer and still come up with nothing. He's just a vessel of nothingness, sent to this world as a Plan B that was never meant to be utilized and now that he's the only one left, he is being pushed and pulled on like a rag doll and having his mind groomed by people from both good and bad until he is nothing but just a bloody parrot.

His mum's scribe and one of her small hands comes into his line of vision, and he has to blink away a few stray tears before he can read her message proper.  _ "Stop crying, love, _ " it reads.  _ "I am actually really surprised that you haven't been going to the Outlands for quite some time, to be honest. I always figured that when Gemma would slip out at night to go to the Truth Talks, that she would take you with her." _

"What?" Harry snaps his eyes up towards her as soon as he's done reading. "You knew about Gemma?"

His mum smiles tightly and nods, and Harry leans back in his chair, slowly taking in this new onslaught of information.

"How did you know?" Harry asks carefully.

His mum takes the scribe back and she begins to slide her stylus over the screen with ease, her mouth twisted in concentration before she passes the scribe back to them.

_ "It's a common misconception that several people in our era believe in that women with a social status like my own are unaware of the happenings of society around us." _ Harry glances up at his Mum and she nods for him to continue to read what she wrote.  _ "But the thing is that we do know what's happening. In a world that is filled with such immense quietness, it is much easier to overhear things that people don't want you to hear. Everyone has this certain future set ahead of them, I've known that since I was quite young; my father had a prevalent gene and he was recruited to be one of the predecessors of the Unconformists. The founders of the Unconformists would meet at our home sometimes, and I sat on our old stairs and watched as him and seven other men came to order and orchestrated the fundamental platforms that the Unconformists would stand for. I learned a lot on those stairs, and I was sure that I, and the rest of my family, would move to the Outlands shortly. And then I met your father." _

Harry looks up at his Mum as she takes the scribe in just the knick of time right before it automatically erases the words and begins to continue her story. She hands it back to him after a few minutes.

_ "When I was assigned to be mated to him, your Grandfather was not pleased at all. I was inherently confused on why he was so unhappy; Des was the love of my life, after all. It wasn't until I spied on him talking to one of his colleagues that I understood. My father knew that Des was going to be part of The Movement before Des was even aware of this fact, himself. And that is when it all became clear to me: everyone's future was decided before they were even born." _

"I'm not sure that I understand.." Harry says slowly, tearing his eyes from the scribe and up towards his Mum's.

Her hand is wrapped languidly around a small spoon that she's slowly trailing through her own rapidly cooling tea, and she looks so... detached about this whole entire situation. Her usually-gleaming eyes are oddly empty, and her mouth is twisted into this tight line that it usually only takes on when she thinks about his father. He thinks that she deliberately acts like this everytime his father is forced into her mind, as some sort of self-preservation to not let her heart be broken anymore over the fact that he's gone.

_ "The Movement and the Unconformists have a... complex relationship." _ His mum writes.  _ "They both stand adamantly against each other's core values, obviously. But their hatred of one another took a backseat to peace; both sides are smart enough to know that our New World doesn't have the population to withstand a war without wiping out the entire human race. So, they made the system that my father calls the Selection. The Selection is quite simple: The Movement mates people based on genes, and then they distribute the offspring between Unconformists and The Movement equally so that both sides are happy with the people that they have on their side. Each person, based on which side they're Selected to be on, is groomed from childhood to fit in with their future most perfectly. This is why Gemma was sent to the Outlands ever since she could walk, and why my father was so upset about me being mated to Des." _

"What happens to the people that don't have special genes?"

_ "I have a recessive gene, so The Movement and Unconformists don't deem me as a prize to make bets over. So, they never groomed me to fit in either side, I am supposed to be one of the brainwashed masses that doesn't recognize how this society is working around us, so I was expected to just mate with Des and be a perfect citizen under The Movement while having children with him to replicate his gene. They were pleased with Gemma when she was born and the gene was shown, and they took her to the Outlands and started to groom her. And then hysteria struck." _

"Hysteria?" Harry repeats out loud after reading the word from the scribe.

_ "The Movement accused the Unconformists of disobeying the Selection system and trying to recruit those that were selected to be part of The Movement to join the Unconformists. This, of course, took place when you were born. Nobody thought to pay mind to you, or your prevalent gene, so you was never selected. The conspiracy quickly brought down the entire system of the Selection and ever since, our world has been teetering on the brink of a massive war that neither of us are quite ready for. The Movement began to threaten the Unconformists, first by killing all of the children that didn't have their words monitored as a warning, and then by executing the one person that held the entire future of the Unconformists on their shoulders: Gemma." _

Harry winced at the sight of Gemma's name paired with the dull emptiness in his mother's eyes. She's crying too, now, he finally notices, with massive tears slowly slipping down her hollowed cheeks as her hands tremor infinitesimally with all of the pain that she has so deeply bottled inside. She grabs her stylus and finishes writing.

_ "After Gemma, the Selection program ceased and The Movement announced that all future generations with promising genes will be selected to join their side. Your father was taken shortly after. And someone finally noticed something that was forgotten in the midst of all of this political madness:  _ you.  _ Both sides realized that you haven't been groomed by anyone yet, and that you were the most important, and most volatile, person in the entire society that belonged to no one. Ever since, it's been a mad dash to see which side will win you over." _

Harry takes a sip of his tea now, it's cold and bitter (an akin metaphor to this new reality that he has been thrust into) but he still drinks it with ease as he digests this information. He never would've guessed that his Mum knew anything about the truth of the world that they lived in.

"What if I told you," Harry drawls slowly, his heart is pounding loudly in his ears, nearly drowning his own voice out. "That I want to choose the side that would make you happiest, that would keep you safe."

_ "Harry, no." _ His mum projects quickly.  _ "Do not base this massive decision off of me. Please don't burden me like that. You're the only gleaming piece of light that I have left in this life, and I don't want to be the reason why your light will diminish. Make this decision for your own best interest, don't worry about me. I want whatever will make you feel safe." _

"But what about you, Mum? You're still important. You're all I have left, too. You know this world that we live in, you know that if I make the wrong choice that you can..." He clears his throat and tries to hold back his own tears that are coming as quickly as a crushing wave. "You can end up like Dusty."

_ "Don't fret over me, love. Please." _

"Mum, I have to. You're the only one I have left. I can't be the reason why you die, too. I have to make the right choice --"

"I'm already dead inside."

Harry puts down the cuppa on the table, his mouth slackening as he stares at his mum, soaking in the words she had just uttered. This is the same woman that held me as I cried when I was petrified that The Movement was going to come take me from my house too, he thinks, this is the woman that would save her words to tell my father how much she loved him. This is his Mum, a woman once filled with so much love and caring devotion and life that she was like a radiant beam of sunlight, and now she looks so empty, so beaten down from the life that she was thrust into, that it breaks his heart.

"I still don't want to disappoint you."

_ "Harry, please listen to me. The only thing that I want you to do is what you feel like is the best decision you can make. I will not be disappointed in you as long as you're happy." _

"Do you promise?" Harry asks, his mum nods, smiling tightly. "Then I should.. I should go. I have to do something."

Harry stands and dumps his cuppa in the sink before rounding the table and resting his hand on her frail shoulder. She glances up at him, and Harry's heart sinks a little when he realizes how much her eyes look just like Gemma's. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to her cheek.

"I love you, Mum." he mumbles, their hands tangle briefly before he makes himself walk away.

He forces himself to not think of it as the monumental goodbye that it felt like.

//

Harry raps his knuckles against the oaken wood of the door once more, sighing in the low light of the hallway.

"Cmon," he mumbles to himself and glances over his shoulders before knocking again. "At least one of you lot have to be home."

Harry presses his forehead against the door and blows air out through his mouth in exasperation. There's a million things storming through his mind right now; things that he doesn't quite feel like fully delving into at this moment, but one of them is at the forefront, scorching his lips and permanently branded into his mind every time he closes his eyes.

Kissing Louis Tomlinson isn't a particular event that Harry has spent much time thinking about before. He never would've predicted that his thin, candy floss lips would ever breach in such a close proximity to his own with such fervor, and he truly never would've thought that if he and Louis ever so happened to kiss, that he would enjoy it in same manner.

But he did, and that's why he's standing here right now.

Harry kneels down and tries to glance through the peephole for some sign of life behind Louis and Liam's door; but it's for no avail. Either nobody is home, or they're studiously ignoring his existence. Harry sighs and raises back to his normal height, looking around the barren hallway before taking the few steps to stand in front of his own flat door. He tries to scan his hand to gain entrance, which doesn't work, and then he tries to turn the knob of the door. Still nothing.

"Dammit," he mumbles to himself and kicks the door of his former flat. "They actually changed the locks."

One more anxious look around the hallway and then he's digging through the pocket of his jacket and forcing himself to keep his breathing semi-normal as his fingertips brush against the material.

"I'm a fucking criminal," Harry whispers to himself as he pulls out the paper and pen that he knicked from Gemma's room when he was back at the house. "A motherfucking criminal, what the fuck am I doing."

He sits down on the wooden flooring just outside of Liam's and Louis' flat, smoothing out the paper in between his spread legs and pressing the foreign-feeling pen to the starch paper, writing his message with deft swoops of his hands while cautiously looking up and down the hallway the entire time. He reads over the letter quickly, just to make sure that it makes since.

_ 'Dear Louis and Liam - _

_ Before this year I never thought of myself to have a friend; I mean, what is the point of having a friend if you can't speak to them? But you both took me under your wing and made me feel more safe, more at home. And I thank you for that, I truly do. Without you two, my life would've continued to be a monochromatic blur. This is why I feel like I should tell you both that I'm sorry and goodbye - in one letter. _

_ Liam: you're the kindest man I know. You're so earnest and even though we haven't spoken lately, I still hold you dear to my heart as a friend. I wish that I could tell you a proper goodbye; you deserve that much. You also deserve a proper apology. I don't know if Louis has told you what happened the other night: but if he has, please know that I am so.. so sorry. Not only was that action illegal, but it also went back on all of the trust you have in me. I cannot forgive myself for breaking your heart. _

_ And Louis: thank you for being here for me. And trying your best to do what you think is in my best interest. You're a caring person, Louis, even if you try to hide it. And I can tell that I was beginning to burrow as deeply in your heart as you were in mine. _

_ I'm sorry that all of your work was for nothing. I know you want me on the Unconformist's side, but I can't. I don't belong with your people, and I don't belong with The Movement, either. It's hard for me to think this way, but I feel like the choice I'm making is the only rash one. I was brought into this world as a free man that didn't belong to a certain side, and I plan to waste my last breath as one, too -- _


	20. Chapter 20

"What in the fuck are you doing here?" A voice pulls him out of his reverie from reading. "I thought they kicked you out of this hell-hole."

Harry looks up, his heart racing in his ears. _Maybe the end is coming sooner than I thought_ , his mind thinks wildly as he squints in the darkness to make out the features of the person standing before him. His mouth releases a sigh of relief when he finally recognizes Zayn, with his lax posture and hollow cheek bones, staring down at him with an entertained tilt to his mouth.

"They did. I mean, I am. Kicked out of this building. I just came by to give this letter to Louis and Li-"

Zayn leans down and snatches the frail piece of paper from his hands. His forehead crinkles as he reads over the letter, making the thought sensors on his temples move. Harry's stomach slowly feels with dread as he realizes that Zayn's actually reading everything that Harry wrote.

"Harry.. Do you mean to do what I think you're hinting at in this letter?"

"I.. It's the only option, it seems. I mean, I don't... I'm not." Harry makes an aborted sound and leans his head against the door behind him with a solid thunk. "It seems like the safest option."

"You're saying that killing yourself is the safest option." Zayn deadpans before rolling up the paper and hitting Harry over the head with the paper. "I thought that you was supposed to be smart, Gemma - and now Louis - always talk about how clever you are.  But this is a pretty dull move."

Harry presses his palms to the floor and drives himself to stand upwards, taking a st

"I don't want to hurt anyone anymore. This is the only way to ensure everyone's safety."

"Actually, you're wrong. You're the last person with your gene, so if you die, The Movement will go to the last resort: your mum. They will force her to donate one of her eggs to try and have another child with your gene as quickly as possible against her will. Which, I don't think your Mum would enjoy that too much." Zayn crumbles up the paper in his hands and shoves it in his coat pocket. "I also happen to know a certain short lad with a thing for tech that would be gutted if you died, especially so soon after you two romantically snogged. It'd be a true Romeo and Juliet dynamic if you went through with this."

"Romeo and Juliet?" Harry echoes, Zayn shrugs in a way that Louis usually does after he uses a reference to some uncovered gem from the past that's way over his head. "And, you know about the kiss?"

"Of course I do. Why else do you think I've been running all over the pod searching for you? Louis told me, then sent me after you."

Harry eyes Zayn cautiously, "Why did he send you after me?"

Zayn rolls his eyes, "Because he knows you well enough to know that you'd do something idiotic like what you're trying to do right now."

"It's not idiotic, Zayn. It's really, really not. I have seen enough shit in the past few months, have learned enough secrets and been involved in enough stupid arsed conspiracies and missions to know that everyone would be better off if I was dead. I'm not doing this because I'm scared, I can handle being afraid. I want to kill myself because I don't want to hurt anyone else. And the longer I'm alive, the more people I seem to hurt."

Harry slides his hand through his hair and barks out a dry laugh, "Can't you see it, Zayn? I'm not myself anymore. I'm not Harry. I'm this... vile poison that keeps hurting everything that I care for most. My true self was dead the day that I sat down and listened to a Superior as they told me to electrocute a mere stranger. I have nothing worth living for anymore."

"You're wrong, and you know you are. I'm an empath, Harry, I can literally feel your feelings and I know that you don't want to die. You're just scared, you're guilty, and you're confused. But we can help you. Louis and I can help you."

"I'm not going back to the Outlands."

"And I'm not taking you there. You're flagged now, Harry. Every move you make is being carefully assessed by both the Unconformists and The Movement, and we only have a small window of time to get you away from them so you can make your own decision."

"Flagged?" Harry repeats to himself.

The Movement has a system for investigating possible Unconformists in which they 'flag' the suspect. Flagging is the umbrella term for literally stalking every single movement and word that one makes, and once someone is flagged-- it's basically a given that they're soon to be incarcerated or executed. Harry has heard on the news of someone being flagged in his pod before, but he never would've imagined a world where he would be the person that was flagged.

"My mum," Harry turns to Zayn and presses his hand on his bony shoulder. "My Mum talked to me on the scribe, They watched us. They know that she knows --"

Zayn doesn't say anything, just grips Harry's wrist and leads him down the stairway quickly, he ducks through a doorway and leads Harry out into the alley between his old flat building and the one that neighbors it. It's raining, Harry notices, which is only the most fitting setting for a day like this, really.

"Harry, don't think about your Mum. Don't worry about her. I can feel them near us; They're angry. Try to keep your mind empty." Zayn stops their pace suddenly and presses Harry against the staccato brick of his flat building. "Harry, I'm serious. Focus on your breathing, yeah? It's not helping for you to wheeze like that."

Harry just now realizes that he's been inhaling sharp, wheezing breaths the entire time. He's sweating, and he feels dizzy all of a sudden. He tries to focus on Zayn's fiery, brown eyes but he can't. They're watching him, he knew it but he didn't think that he was being watched closely enough to be flagged. They're probably chasing after his Mum right now. He led Them to her.

"Dammit. Fucking. Fuck." Zayn kicks the wall beside them. "Harry, are you listening to me? You need to focus. Nod if you can hear me..." Harry forces himself to nod. "Good. Fuck. I'm going to inject you with something that'll help you calm down. Just promise that no matter what that you'll keep on walking. Harry, I'm serious. Nod and tell me that you're okay with me injecting you."

Harry nods and Zayn gets out the injector, pressing the needle to his forehead and injecting the liquid into his bloodstream swiftly. Harry's rapid breaths immediately begin to settle. Zayn grabs his shoulder and Harry thinks he hears something like his voice projecting They're close and then the two of them are out of the safety of the alleyway.

Rain is pounding in steady sheets on their backs as Harry and Zayn practically sprint down the block. No one else is out on the sidewalks or up in the air; they're not foolish and don't want to get ill from the bad weather. But Harry can make out the shape of a dingy, silver hovercraft at the end of the block. And for some reason, Harry just knows. He knows that Louis is in there, probably watching them, urging them to come faster to the hovercraft, and for some reason that pushes Harry to drive his legs harder in the sprint towards the craft.

And that's when a set of hands wrap around his waist and pull him harshly to the sidewalk and out of Zayn's grip. Harry gazes, dazed, into the shielded mask of a Superior that is pinning him to the ground. He hears shrieking, and doesn't realize that the screams are his own until the hovercraft that he was running towards is directly above his head and flying swiftly far, far away from him.

//

"I do not hold any sort of emotional attachment to Louis William Tomlinson." Harry says. "I will never form an emotional attachment to Tomlinson."

Simon leans forward in his massive, wing-backed chair, resting his chin on his steepled fingers as his eyebrows furrow at Harry. He tilts his head to the left, and pain automatically blossoms through Harry's wrists from where the tech that is tethering him against the wall tightens on his skin. He clenches his jaw defiantly, not dropping eye contact with Simon all the while. He won't break for him.

"I wish that I could believe you, Mr. Styles," Simon says in such an empty tone that shows that his words hold no truth. "I really do."

A mechanical arm that is white - of course it's white, Harry has began to find irony in the overabundance of this supposedly pure colour - outstretches in front of Harry's face before plunging forward and seeping into the skin that surrounds his left eye, forcing it to stay open unblinkingly. Harry bites his tongue to try and muffle the screech of pain that threatens to rip from his throat as a result. He feels sweat pooling between his collarbones as his chest heaves, but he pays no mind to the tendrils of moisture that are moving at the same agonizing pace that Simon detaches from his desk with.

"You see, I have visual proof that you're lying to me, Harry. You can imagine how displeased I was when I came across the footage myself. We thought that we could have faith in you, we thought that you was actually acting in the best interest for The Movement, not yourself."

The mechanical arm releases a low, whirring noise and the very center of the claw widens in a minuscule but still painful motion before a harsh beam of light is aimed directly at his pupil. He tries to squint away from it but he can't, the claw's position forcing his eyes open no matter how valiantly he tries to fight it. Simon chuckles lowly and Harry hears the sounds of footsteps nearing him just as the nauseating beam shifts into taking the form of a projected image right on his eye.

The quality is fuzzy at first, with shapes that are reminiscent of phosphenes until his eye adjusts to the close proximity of the projection and he can make out a video that takes place in his own flat. Harry's stomach drops as the sounds of his own sobs overtakes his ears, just as the projected image of himself hunches over the object in his hands. Dusty. He clenches his fists and tries to move away from the claw; he can't watch this.

"Oh, come on now, Mr. Styles, we're nearly at my favorite part." Simon is even closer to Harry now, he can tell by the volume of his voice. "It's truly romantic."

Harry watches in terror as the door to his flat opens and a small, shadowed figure cradling a teacup paces towards him. He watches as Louis' face goes through a myriad of emotions before settling on concerned, and then he is lowering himself in one fluid motion to kneel beside Harry.

He can see how this could be misconstrued as romantic, what with the way that Louis' hand fits so delicately on the back of his neck, his blue eyes shining with unshed tears as he calls Harry's name. Harry watches as his past self slowly tilts his head upwards, cheeks hollowing as he tries to hold back another gut-wrenching sob. And then Louis kisses him.

Their mouths fit together like puzzle pieces, Harry notices as Louis fists a handful of his curls and presses against his mouth gently. It hardly looks like a first kiss, too, there's no awkwardness as Past Harry's head tilts ever-so-slightly to the left for a better angle. They almost look like how his parents did when they would kiss, with the way that they exude this aura of familiarity as they meld together seamlessly. Harry watches as the projected Louis breaks apart from the kiss, and then the projection is over.

"Now please continue to lie to me about how you do not hold any trace of an emotional attachment to Tomlinson."

The claw retracts from around his eye slowly as Harry grits out, "I don't."

The restraints on his wrist tighten even further, and Harry can swear that he can feels his bones breaking. He feels like a flag in the middle of a hurricane, being whipped in every direction mercilessly while he valiantly tries to tether to down to the ground. His vision is swimming with the agonizing waves of pain that is overrunning his veins, and he feels like he is on the verge of blacking out.

"You're lying to me, Harry. The Movement doesn't condone liars, and we definitely will not stand for one of our very own Superiors to be fornicating with an Unconformist. I don't know who I should be angered with more: you or myself." Simon stands directly in front of him, his irises are stormy with anger. "I campaigned for you, I told The Movement to let you prove yourself. I told them that you are better than your sister and that we could trust you. Imagine how embarrassed I felt when I realized that you have been lying to my face for months. You've made a fool of me, Harry."

"I.." Harry slurs before leaning his head back on the wall behind him. He doesn't know what to say; he feels like all of the desire to fight has been stolen from his body. "I'm not.."

"You're not what, Harry?" Simon is closer in his proximity now, he can feel his moist breath hitting his exposed chest. Harry shifts uncomfortably, his raw ankles scrape against the metal tethers that are latched around them painfully. "You're not lying to me? You're not being used as a pawn by Tomlinson? You're not attempting to single-handedly demolish all of the values that The Movement has put in place?"

"I'm loyal.." Harry uses every ounce of strength that he has to inhale a painful breath. Something liquid is slowly making it's way down his cheek, Harry doesn't spare a thought on whether it's blood or his own tears. "I swear."

Simon moves to where he's right in front of Harry, staring domineeringly at him as his vision swims from the blinding pain and hunger that has been running rampant throughout his body for what feels like centuries. His mouth twitches into an evil shape that is somewhat reminiscent of a smile, before he takes a step backwards and tilts his head to the right. The tethers around his limbs release all of a sudden and his body is hurling forward and making rough contact with the solid floor. His wrists crack painfully as he valiantly tries to stop his forehead from connecting with the floor, too. He slowly looks up, through the long, sweaty tendrils of his hair to make eye contact with Simon, who is standing in front of him with a dangerous luster in his eyes, panting all the while.

"Prove it." Simon snarls and kicks Harry painfully in his heaving chest.

//

**_LOUIS' POV_ **

He remembers when he was young and at that bleak, boring age when no one ever expected him to achieve anything that could be classified as an act of greatness, and his Mum would scribe stories that she remembered from Truth Talks and project them on his 'wall' (which was really just a curtain that divided his part of the room from Lottie's just to give the illusion of privacy) for him to read before he fell asleep and dreamed about childish things that really held no value. The stories were all contraband tales that The Movement valiantly tried to destroy during the Shift from the Old World to the New World. They all had the same basis, someone was lost and in danger and their lover would sweep in gloriously at the very last second to rescue their loved one and whisk them away to their very own brand of a Happily Ever After.

Maybe those nights, the ones where his Mum would perch precariously on his small cot of a bed and try to instill some sort of moral into his mind that would help him later on in life, are what inspired him to do what he did. Maybe it was the acts of heroism and bravery that his Mum told him about that made him actually believe that he could go into The Movement Headquarters and leave with their most prized future leader unscathed. He isn't sure why he acted the way he did, (Harry isn't even his bloody lover, after all, why is he even trying to make a metaphor out of this?) but that doesn't change the fact that he's here. Facing a mirror and staring straight into his own bruised eyes as a bunch of brainless Superiors flit about around him, preparing for whatever happens next.

Louis doubts that anyone would ever have the sickness to dream up a fairy tale like this, one that is shrouded in so much death and violence, one that he is certain has no ability to ever lead to a happy ending. He doubts that anyone would ever deem him as their Prince, anyways.

Louis blows hot air through his mouth and mentally rolls his eyes at himself. The lack of food and proper sunlight has weakened him a bit; he's turning into a proper sap, now. He forces himself to look into the mirror and straighten up his posture. He has a reputation to uphold, he can't be thinking about fairy tales at a time like this, not when there's Superiors circling around him predatorily, waiting for him to show a sign of weakness so that they can feed on it.

"Would anyone mind to fetch me a cuppa?" Louis turns in his chair to face the handful of Superiors. They're all staring back at him with wide eyes like a frightened cat. "Or a glass of water. I'm not too much of an elitist."

All he gets in return are blank stares; he shouldn't be too surprised, they are brainwashed, after all. He turns back in his chair and raps his knuckles against the white table. His mind slowly giving into the swirling webs of wonder that it always falls victim to in hostage situations like this. It has been five days since he has broken into Movement HQ to try and retrieve Harry, which means that he has been forced into his room for four days. He's not sure what The Movement is planning to do with him, but he can feel the climax coming soon. He figures it will be something that is inordinately stressful, seeing as they have always had an intense liking for dramatics.

He's not too worried, though. He convinced Zayn to whisk his Mum and the girls away to safety weeks ago, and he knows for a fact that The Movement isn't stupid enough to kill Harry. So he's oddly at ease, in a sense. The Movement can't possibly ruin his life anymore than They already have.

"Put him in the chair," barks an achingly familiar voice that isn't in the same room. "Someone make sure that Tomlinson's connected to the machine. I want to get this over with."

Louis glares at the mirror in front of him, trying with all of his might to see through it. They couldn't possibly be doing this. A hand makes contact with his wrist and Louis jolts, rearing back his elbow to make contact with the person's abdomen and causing them to grunt out in pain. Louis looks over his shoulder at the culprit, and actually feels a bit guilty when he spots a familiar head of tousled brown hair and thin, pale hands.

"Fuckin' hell, Tomlinson." Niall murmurs and Louis feels a small grin take over his features. One glance at the mirror provides him with the knowledge that it's just him and Niall in the small room, all of the other Superiors must have left while he was lost in thought. "You act like you're a prisoner here, or something."

"Very funny, Horan." Louis relaxes in his chair and allows Niall to grab his wrist. "Is it just me, or am I about to experience major deja vù?"

Louis watches in the mirror as Niall nods in a minuscule motion. Fucking ace, then. Niall attaches a sensor with a long, thin wire stemming from it to his chest.

"How original," Louis murmurs and gives Niall his forefinger so that he can clamp another censor around the pad of it. "I suppose that you could pass on a small message for me, then?"

Another hardly noticeable nod from Niall.

"Tell him about the door." Louis says briefly. "Make sure that it's clear that it's up to him if he uses it, though."

Niall leans over him to turn on a massive monitor, "I'm going to need a number, then."

Louis uses the back of his hand to move his fringe from out of his eyes. He remembers that the most Superiors that he's ever seen in this room at once didn't even near the amount of ten, and that his bracelet has a distress signal that can reach Zayn in fifteen minutes. If he plays his cards right, he can pull this off.

"Two hundred," Louis decides verbally. "And if you wouldn't mind, I'd quite enjoy it if Simon was watching."

Niall chuckles under his breath and shakes his head. Louis wishes with every fiber of his being that he had more time to convince him to ditch the white.

"I saw the kiss," Niall mumbles as he loosens the straps around his ankles a bit. "I'm proud to say that I'm the only one that saw this coming."

Niall is out of his proximity and then the room before Louis even has the chance to tell him that it wasn't what he thought he saw, but he doesn't have the time to worry over it, now. There is a myriad of different things that Louis needs to focus on before he even dares to let himself fancy the thought of feelings Harry's soft lips pressing pliantly against his own once more.

"He tried to rescue you, you know." Simon's voice reverberates from the other room loudly, pulling Louis back into focus on the current situation at hand. "The fool actually came here, alone, and tried to rescue you."

Louis looks back at the mirror, the silence of both the other room and his own is only broken by the monotone beeping that represents his current heart-rate and the sound of his breathing.

Louis watches with bated breaths as the mirror torturously turns into two-way glass, and his eyes are looking dead into the muted jade hue of Harry's red-rimmed ones.

He looks like shit, to put it lightly. His wrists are swollen purple with painful bruises and his shirt is torn all through the front, exposing distinguishable bones resting just beneath his thin, ivory skin. He looks broken, like a fallen, delicate  flower petal that has lost it's bright vibrancy as the seasons wore against him treacherously. His left eye has small, yet insanely deep scars circling around it, and Louis can see the stories of pain that are harbored in the green irises of Harry's eyes that have lost their effervescent sheen that they held when they first met. Louis fingers scramble uselessly towards the glass, like he's trying to reach for Harry and placate him. His heart sinks into his stomach as he realizes that The Movement has broken Harry, the same Harry that would laugh at his own jokes and carry a certain sort of bright happiness that even he was unaware of.

He feels angry, like he wants to lash out and set the most destructive brands of tech on all of the Head Superiors until they realize that they shouldn't fuck with people's' well-beings just to make a statement. Any trace of pity that he was about to hold for when he goes through with his plan is gone, buried deep beneath the ground along with his fallen Liam. The Movement deserves all of the different types of hell that Louis will put them through.

"I'm sure you're familiar with the rules, Harry, as we've done this before." Simon walks forward and rests his hand on Harry's shoulder, causing for him - he looks so frail, Louis notes, like Simon's hand could easily break his bones - to twitch with fear. "You ask a question, and if he gets it wrong, you administer shock. With every question that he gets wrong, you will administer a higher amount of shock. You can quit this at any time you please, but just remember that this is proving your loyalty to us, and if you can't go on; you will be flagged as an Unconformist."

Harry nods slowly, his eyes are locked onto Louis', radiating all of his fear and trepidation in just one small glance.

"Very well, then. Mr. Horan, if you could just ensure that Mr. Styles is ready, then this will all begin."

Niall walks forward with a blank face, fingers messing with the machine that will send the shock to Louis and checking Harry's own censors. Louis watches as Niall leans close to Harry and murmurs something indistinguishable. Harry nods slowly at his words, looking at Louis all the while with furrowed eyebrows. Louis looks behind Harry to ensure that Simon isn't watching him before looking Harry dead in the eye and mouthing two words.

_"Trust me."_

Harry's hollow eyes stare blankly back at Louis, showing no sign that he truly absorbed the message that he sent Niall to tell him, and Louis briefly worries that The Movement has tortured him to the point where he can't even think properly. But then Harry is blinking, his chapped lips moving slowly as they form the silent words that he covertly gives Louis through the glass.

_"I do."_

Louis has never felt so much relief flood through his body all at once until this very moment. They haven't broken him. Louis blinks back at Harry, schooling his expression so that it doesn't give way to a smile before moving his hand that isn't attached to over a million different types of censors and wires so that he could outstretch his thumb from his fist. Harry has never been a fan of sign language, he made that evident one day when they were sat in Harry's old flat and Louis was explaining the different ways that Unconformists communicate. But they both did agree on a sign that they could make to show the other that everything is okay, and Louis feels a bit more confident in his plan when Harry returns the sign with his free hand.

"He's ready," Niall informs Simon in a clipped voice.

"Then let's get started. Styles, if you would begin to read off your script." Simon booms, and Louis has to repress the urge to roll his eyes as he watches Harry summon up a projected script from a small piece of tech that Louis invented.

Louis stares blankly over Harry's head as he drops his hand that isn't wired to every machine that is humanly possible to rest under the table. Harry is saying something about The Movement's Core Values, but he's not listening. He's too busy maneuvering his wrist so that his bracelet will press against the hard corner of the table. Please, let this work. Louis covertly lays his hand back on the table, shifting his eyes to bore into Harry's own. They're waiting for his answer, he can tell by the mixture of the heavy silences and the baited stares that are prevalent between the two rooms.

Right. He has fifteen minutes until he can make his move and he needs to stall until the time comes. Louis hooks his foot in the small crevice that he personally designed while making the layout for this very room and sits up straighter in his share.

"The Movement is an organization that isn't built on values." Simon scoffs as soon as Louis opens his mouth. Prick. "It is one that was formed solely because of their incurable amount of greed for power. Everything that they act like they stand for is just highclass media-oriented bullshit."

Louis watches as Harry swallows apprehensively - there's a long scar running down his neck, he notices. Louis stares at the scar and feels anger overrun his body. His hands shake as Harry, meek, terrified Harry shakes his head.

"Incorrect." Harry's eyes flash with something undetectable as his hand hovers over the switch. "I will now be administering a fifty-voltage shock."

Louis closes his eyes and waits for the tearing pain that comes hand in hand with the relentless electricity that the wires thrust upon him. His mouth dries slightly as the shock causes for him to tremor in his chair for a few seconds. Louis swears he can hear his own heartbeat racing expeditiously in his own ears. He opens his eyes after what feels like hours to be met with a pair of blazing green ones that are watching him worriedly.

Louis forces himself to smile, tilting his head so that his fringe moves away from his eyes as he says, "Is that all you've got?"

Harry inhales shakily, staring at Louis like he's a some odd mixture of a stranger and a martyr, before swiping across the desk and projecting his next scripted question.

"Please finish the sentence. The Movement's motto for proper citizen conduct is--"

Louis shifts in his chair and leans forward until his nose is nearly hitting the glass. He stares past Harry and directly at Simon, anger filling his veins as he stares into the coward's eyes and is reminded of all of the lives that Simon has stolen for his own, vain reasons.

"Do what we say or be killed." Louis spits furiously. "Or should I say; do what we say or watch us kill your loved ones."

"That's incorrect."

"You killed Lottie, you killed Liam, and you're trying to kill Harry. Can't you enforce your values any other way?" Louis practically screams at Simon.

Louis waits for the shock but doesn't look at Harry to see when he pulls the switch. Instead, he continues to stare at Simon. Continues to let anger rush over him like the torrential waves that crash in the middle of a hurricane as he looks at the same man that stood in front of him and killed his Liam. He looks at the man that held him at gunpoint and forced him to make weapons fit for genocide. The shock ignites his veins and causes for his foot to kick out in the crevice that he had it rested in.

Louis doesn't realize the error until he's too late.

Louis created this room; he mapped out the blueprints and the two-way mirror and the tech that is embedded in the wall that stands between him and Harry. He also created an escape route for his Unconformists, too. The foothold under the table acts as a mechanism that can simultaneously unlock all of the doors while collapsing the mirror that divides the table in half. The fallen mirror creates a diversion to the suddenly unlocked door -which is the way that any Unconformist that is aware of this can escape.

No one has ever used this before, and Louis was aware that the mechanism only had a fifty-fifty chance of working. And judging by the resultant blaring sirens and the shattered glass around him and Harry; Louis can confidently say that it worked. The only error is that Louis triggered the phenomena too soon and there's a chance that Zayn won't be there when Louis makes it to the hovercraft landing on the roof. There's also Harry: who probably has no idea how to even get himself out of the wires that he's entrapped in.

Louis jumps up and presses the red button one of the machines that he was wired to, and the other wires soon retract along with it. He grabs his spare screwdriver that he keeps in his waistband and unlocks the restraints on his ankles before reaching across the table for Harry.

"Run if you want to leave with me," Louis yells over the sounds of the wailing sirens and the screaming Superiors, shoving the screwdriver in Harry's shaking hand. "Through the door and go down the hallway until the very end at the left.  Open the window. We'll catch you."

Louis feels the broken glass rip through his shirt and then his skin as he leans over the table and presses the red button on Harry's own machine.

"If you want to come with us; do it." Louis yells as a meaty hand grabs his waist and pulls him back towards his own room.

Louis rears back his elbow to connect with the person's abdomen and then pivots on his foot to kick them on the side of their face; causing for pain to rip through his foot. Fuck, that hurt.  The Superior falls back and clutches their jaw and Louis squints as another hand comes and crashes to his own face. His mind goes blank as he tears through his room; he's punching madly and blessing Paul and his penchant for making them take self defense classes as pulls a Superior by the hair and slams them into the wall. He opens the door and turns back around, thrusting his middle finger in the air manically.

"Fuck you, Simon. And _ fuck _ The Movement."

Louis is not fond of running. Especially if it involves him going upstairs while he's at it. But his body is so encompassed with adrenaline that he can hardly feel his legs as he sprints up the stairs at a pace that he didn't even know his body was able of achieving.

"Holy shit it worked," he mumbles to himself -- he can hear Superiors chasing after him but he knows that he is much closer to the exit than they are to him. "It fucking worked."

Louis feels like he's in one of those action films that the Elders would recount during Truth Talks. His heart is racing wildly and he can envision dramatic explosions flailing wildly behind him as he leaves his successful mission in the dust. The only unanswered question that is still prevalent is the one that he refuses to think about at the moment.

He can't be upset if Harry isn't waiting for him. It's Harry's life and his decision on whether he wants to cut his ties with The Movement or not. But he can't help but feel terrified about the notion that Harry won't be waiting for them on the seventieth floor, and that whatever.. thing he had with Harry is actually over.

Louis sighs as he busts open the door to the roof and sees the same dingy hovercraft that he has began to accustom to as safety fluttering just over the ground. He sprints towards where he knows the entrance is and nearly sobs when he sees Zayn smiling like a lunatic while leaning against the side of the craft.

"You sure do know how to excite a man at two in the fucking morning." Zayn taunts and slides his hand through Louis' sweat-matted hair. "Do you want to explain where in the fuck you've been lately?"

Louis leans down and rests his hands on his knees as he wheezes. "Not.. now. Go to the seventieth floor left wing window. Need to... Harry."

Zayn turns his head towards the cockpit and relays what Louis has just said to them. It feels like it's only a matter of seconds before the craft is going airborne before dipping downwards to skim against the side of the building. Louis rolls his eyes when the familiar sounds of bullets hitting the metal of the craft starts to reverberate throughout the small hovercraft.

When the craft stops descending is when Louis opens up the sliding door and looks outside. His heart stops when he catches sight of the window.

_ "Harry," _ he exhales.

The next few seconds happen so quickly, like a shot by shot replay that occurs in his own mind. Louis tells Harry to jump and the pilot maneuvers to catch Harry as he falls down the side of the building. Harry's lanky body crashes into Louis' and Zayn closes the door behind him. The craft starts to ascend upwards and Harry is still wrapped around Louis.

And then Harry starts to sob.

He cries loudly, wheezing with the force of his painful sobs as he clutches mercilessly to the thin fabric of Louis' shirt. Louis stands and practically carries Harry to one of the seats on the hovercraft, and Harry still doesn't relinquish his hold on him.

"It's okay," Louis finally brings himself to say. He brings a shaking hand to slide through Harry's knotted curls. "It'll be okay. They're gone now, it's over."

Louis feels tears soak through his shirt but he doesn't pay them any mind. He's bruised, he's sweaty, and his body is still recuperating from the high voltage shock that he endured; but he doesn't feel nearly as broken as Harry sounds. He continues to rub Harry's hair and murmur placating nothings as Harry sobs against him.

Harry leans just a few mere centimeters away from Louis just as soon as they've nearly reached their destination. Louis looks at him and rubs his thumb under Harry's shining, broken eyes to wipe away a stray tear.

"I.." Harry coughs a bit, and Louis rubs his other hand in circles over Harry's back. "I know what happened to Gemma."


	21. Chapter 21

"What do you mean, Harry?" Zayn's voice comes suddenly from the other side of the craft. Harry nearly forgot that Zayn was even there. Harry feels another set of hands on his shoulders, yanking him out of where he was breathing in the protective aura that Louis seems to exude around him. "What happened to Gemma?"

Harry looks into Zayn's eyes, they look crazed; like the eyes of a caged animal that has lost all of it's bearings. He inhales shakily and looks at Louis. His hand is running placatingly over his hair but he can see the anticipation emanating from his eyes. He glances between the two men that are looking at him with this certain brand of desperation that makes his heart feel like it's shattering. If only I had a heart to break, he thinks bitterly. There's nothing more for him to feel, nothing left for him to have hurt.

"I.." Harry says brokenly. "I killed her."

Silence falls heavily over the craft and Louis' hand pauses in it's mindless touches. Harry starts to sob again, curling in on himself as he thinks of everything that has happened to him in the last few days.

_ What have I done?  _ He thinks of the footage of him sinking the injector into Gemma all those months ago. What have I done? He thinks of how her body convulsed in the vehicle, how her mouth was opened around silent screams before her eyes closed and her body was forever suspended in time in a state of death. I'm a monster. His mind flashes back to when Simon took him to see Gemma's dead body. He remembers how she looked so delicate, so pale, so unlike the lively Gemma that he killed. I killed Gemma.

"That's impossible, Harry." Louis says gently. "You couldn't have possibly.. killed Gemma."

"I saw it," Harry screams, voice thick with tears. "I remember it. They told me to inject her and I did and now she's dead."

"What're you talking about? When did you inject Gemma? Have they been holding her captive the whole time?" Zayn's hands drop from Harry's shoulders. "I'm sorry but none of this making sense. You couldn't have killed Gemma, you love her more than we did."

"Haz, let's take a deep breath, yeah? The Movement has been starving and beating you, which means that you're extremely susceptible to brainwashing. They could've tricked you into believing that you killed Gemma, love." Louis says calmly.

"I did," he yells. "I know that I killed her. When I was in training they sent me into this huge machine called the Mod X that made me travel back in time. I was one of the Superiors that stole Gem and they told me to inject her with something and I did. I killed her and then Simon showed me her body."

Zayn looks at Louis, "Can they do that? Does The Movement have tech that can send people through time? Do you know about a Mod X?"

Louis shakes his head, his hand starting to rub soothing circles against Harry's scalp once again.

"We had a machine, but it's still in beta. I've never heard of a Mod X, the only possibility would be if my father made one." Louis' voice takes on a softer edge. "Harry, are you sure you saw Gemma's body?"

"I saw her, he told me to touch her but I couldn't. She was my life," Harry cries. "She was supposed to live. Gemma's the one that should be alive, not me. I'm a monster."

"Harry," Louis says gently.

Louis plants a warm hand in between his shoulder blades and pulls him into another embrace. Harry cries into the ripped fabric of his shirt, his lungs burning in protest. He is bruised, physically and emotionally, and he doesn't think that he'll ever be able to recuperate. Gemma's gone. She's really, truly gone.

"She's dead, Lou." he whispers, Harry listens as Zayn walks away from them. "She's really dead."

For some reason, Harry always had hope for Gemma. He knew that realistically, there was little chance that The Movement spared her her life, and the thought that Gemma would somehow escape is even more inconceivable. But if anyone could: it's Gemma. Gemma is strong and domineering and Harry has seen her look a Superior in the face while breaking The Movement's laws without fear. Gemma is everything that he isn't and she, above anyone else, above Harry, deserved to live.

But this world never seems to hold much compassion for what should happen.

"It's," Louis clears his throat shakily and it's only then that Harry realizes that he's been crying. "It'll be okay. You'll be okay. We're going to get you to the Rebels' House and we're going to get you some proper food and sleep and then you're going to tell me everything about this Mod X."

"I know she's dead, Lou." Harry whispers. "I saw her."

Louis presses a kiss to the crown of Harry's head, he feels to broken to try to figure out how he feels about that.

"We've landed. Are you ready to get up?"

Harry pulls back a bit from where he's pressed against Louis' firm chest. "Can we stay for a bit?" he asks.

"Yeah, we can."

Louis guides Harry back into their embrace, and they stay like that while people move around them. He hears the craft's door groan open, and Zayn's projected voice telling someone to just leave them be. Harry closes his eyes and tries to force himself to believe that he lives in a world that isn't as jaded and filled with evil shadows as this one.

//

Harry wakes up on a foreign bed that is nestled in the corner of the Rebels' House with a searing pain in his stomach and an empty void in his heart to the sound of no one else but Louis Tomlinson yelling at someone else.

"No, he needs his rest," he hears Louis shout over the din of the people talking in the house. "He probably hasn't slept proper in a week."

"He can sleep after I'm done talking to him," the other voice says.

Harry sits up slowly at that, groaning from the torturous burn that his body suffers at the sudden movement. He's never heard anyone talk back to Louis like that, typically everyone is terrified of Louis, but this person seems to not really give a shit.

"He's awake, anyways." the person says. "Let me in."

"I'm not going to let you in even if he is --" Louis' voice is cut off by a muffled groan and then the door is opening up to reveal the silhouette of a feminine body.

"What did you do to Louis?" Harry asks sharply.

"I punched him," the light flicks on. "What did you do to Gemma?"

Harry clears his throat shakily, looking at Cara's angry eyes and feeling fear seep through his veins.

"I killed her," Harry whispers.

Cara's eyes flash with shock and confusion before the swirling irises of hazel settle on anger, and then there's two hands clenched around his throat. Harry wheezes and raises his hands uselessly to try and fend her off for a few moments before deciding to keep them lying at his side.  _ I deserve this, _ he thinks as he feels his airways slowly collapse,  _ I do. _

"You fucking bastard," Cara hisses and presses tighter. "How could you fucking kill her?"

"I... didn't know," Harry wheezes uselessly. "I.."

Cara releases her grip and sits back on the bed, glaring at him while moving all of her hair to one side of her neck.

"Don't look at me like that, I wasn't going to kill you," Cara bites angrily. "I was just getting out all of my aggression towards you in a healthy manner."

"You're fucking crazy," Harry coughs.

"That's rich coming from you, Movement Boy." Cara furrows her dramatic eyebrows at him, staring at him with intensity. "You didn't want to kill her, did you?"

Harry shakes his head, "When I was little, I felt ignored by my family. My mum never spoke to me, my dad was hardly there. All I had was Gemma." he coughs and presses his hand to where his ribs are hurting him most. "I remember when she would let me sneak into her bed and she would tell me stories. She held me when I cried because of how I wasn't the smartest at school and she was there for me when I needed her most. Gem was my everything, and I thought she was going to live forever. I never predicted that she would be taken from me. I never would've guessed that I would be the one that would take her away."

Cara stares at him, one of her hands messing with a loose thread on the quilt that he was sleeping under.

"So if you want to kill me, you can. I deserve it."

"I'm not going to kill Gem's baby brother," Cara says throatily. Harry notices that her eyes are shimmering with unshed tears. "Especially now that Louis is your new self-proclaimed bodyguard."

"I have no idea what that means," Harry coughs and lays back down on the bed. He feels like his lungs are trying to slowly kill him. "But I think that this is you being nice."

Cara shrugs, the music from the other room is reverberating throughout the house and it still feels so foreign to hear sounds meshed together in that way.

"As nice as I'll ever be to a brainless Loyal like you," she retorts. "What changed your mind, anyways? I thought for sure that you was going to stay with The Movement until your last breath."

"Gemma," he answers simply.

And he's telling the truth. When Simon led him to Gemma's body he was showing Harry more than his dead sister, he was showing him the monster that Harry is. Harry isn't a Good Citizen, Harry isn't a Superior. He's an easily swayed fool that belongs with everything else that is deemed as bad in life: he's the definition of an Unconformist. He is the night sky that cloaks everything that's bright and beautiful with a relentless shadow of darkness.

"What do you mean by that?"

"When I saw Gemma I realized that I wasn't any better than Louis, or Zayn. I killed someone. My hands have too much blood on them to be a Superior, so I knew that when the first chance arose, I was going to leave and join the Rebels."

Cara stands up and walks over to the window. She moves the curtain to the side and the bright light from the sky floods the room. Harry can make out her side profile from this angle, and she looks like she's crying.

"Being an Unconformist isn't the equivalent to being a bad person," Harry watches as a stray tear rolls over her defined cheekbones. She looks like a fallen star. "I thought Gemma would've taught you that."

"What was Gemma to you, anyways?" Harry asks.

"I loved her." Cara doesn't say anything else.

Harry stares at her. He never knew that Gemma had a lover. At her age, she wasn't supposed to be romantically involved with anyone, she was so close to being assigned a mate, and it's usually best if people don't get involved with anyone because it'll just make the mating process painful. And Gemma never talked about Cara or told Harry about a girl that she's met; the only person that was talked about in relation to Gemma was some boy with brown hair that was younger than her. Harry can see Gemma loving Cara, though. They both have this charismatic aura, and Cara seems to have this darker, steely demeanor that would mesh so well with Gemma's inherent sense of caring and brightness.

"Alright," the door opens and Louis walks into the room. "Your little chat is over. Let him get his rest."

Cara looks at Louis with her mouth set and her shoulders straight, "What do you want me to say to everyone else?"

"Nothing," Louis walks over by Harry and looks at him for a few brief seconds. "Tell them that we have no idea what's going on and he needs time to recover from what The Movement has done to them. Tell them that I said to stay out of this hallway for the time being. Also, send Ember here in a few hours. He needs medical attention."

"They want to know what happened, Lou." Cara says angrily. "This isn't just some runaway, he's Gemma's brother."

"He's not _ just _ Gemma's brother, he's Harry. And Harry was just tortured by The Movement and had his entire life shattered right in front of his eyes."

"No, he's your pet."

"I'm right here," Harry snaps and tries to sit up but can't. "I can speak for myself."

"Don't move, Harry. Your ribs are broken and if you're not careful you can puncture your lungs." Louis gently guides him to lay back down. Harry watches the shift in his face from Territorial Leader to Caring Friend happen in mere seconds, and it's kind of amazing. "Cara, I understand that this is a hard thing to grasp. It's hard for all of us to grasp. But Gemma is dead because of The Movement, and we have to unite to get back at them for taking our girl."

"She's not dead because of The Movement, she's dead because of him." Cara leaves the room and slams the door, and Harry feels like he's drowning.

"She's right," Harry whispers at the ceiling. "I killed her. I took her away. You should hate me."

"She's wrong," Louis whispers, his voice suddenly full with sorrow. "She's wrong, she's wrong."

"Louis.."

Harry looks at him, truly looks at him. And all he can see is a small man with a heart too big for his own good. Louis Tomlinson is an accumulation of strategically placed sharp angles with a few soft edges, a man that has steely eyes and warm hands. He has a heart likened to a fortress, one that's nearly impossible to get into and even more difficult to leave, and Harry knows that he has somehow became one of the inhabitants of it. He's ethereal, with his always-messed-up fringe and his small wrists and thin lips. He's caring, and he's fragile -- and the thought of Gemma has broken him. And Harry knows that this man is the only good thing that he has left in this life, and he is slowly ruining him.

"It wasn't you," Louis sits on the bed and puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He looks so small like this, so vulnerable. "The Movement forced you to do it and now They're trying to use this information to kill you."

Harry moves his hand to grasp Louis' vainly. He doesn't know if he's holding him to placate Louis or himself.

"The Movement is.." Harry closes his eyes and feels the realization of the truth hit him like a hovercraft. "vile. It's an awful foundation based around manipulating minds and using humans as pawns. But I supported them. You showed me the facts and I still stood by them. So that means I am a vile person, too. I'm not any better than Simon Cowell."

Louis sits up and hovers over Harry, one of his gentle hands slowly moves his matted hair away from his face. His eyes are swirling with something undetectable as he shakes his head.

"You're so wrong," Louis whispers. "I wish that I can show you how lovely you are. I wish that you'd believe me when I tell you about how The Movement brainwashed you. I wish that I could make you stop hurting."

"Impossible," Harry mumbles.

Louis shakes his head and takes his hand out from Harry's hair. "You should rest."

Louis makes to stand up but Harry just clutches tighter to his hand, making him pause from where he was sliding off of the bed. Harry feels lost, in this odd place where there's bright colors on the walls and people that are openly against the law, and Louis' the only familiar and placating presence he has.

"Will you stay, please?"

Louis glances at the closed door, looking at it for long enough that Harry feels like he's going to say no. But then he takes off his shoes and gets under the thin blanket beside Harry.

"Are you okay with this?" Louis asks, his hand tightening around Harry's.

Harry stays quiet, listening to the sound of Louis' breathing and feeling the warmth of his smaller body, and he's a bit shocked at the fact that yes, he is okay with this. The only other person that he has been this close to was Gemma when he was little and afraid of the massive world around him. But now he's here, with Louis, who smells like summer, afraid of the world around him and not quite sure how to deal with the fact that Gemma is dead. And he's okay. He feels okay.

"Yes," he whispers. And then he pulls Louis' hand on top of his heart and forces himself to fall asleep.

//

Harry wakes up to wires connected to his arm and forehead and immediately panics.

_ They found me. The Movement has found me. _ He struggles to sit up and try to tear the IV out of his forearm, but there's a set of hands that push him back down on the bed. He wheezes and tries to summon any trace of fight that's left in his body, but he can't. There's nothing left to fight for. He feels numb. He hopes that The Movement doesn't spare any mercy to him.

"Harry," Louis' voice sounds muffled, like he's underwater. "Harry. Calm down, it's okay. Calm down."

Harry coughs and stares at the ceiling. He feels another hand on his forehead, wiping at a certain spot with a cloth before an injector is seeping through the skin there. Calming fluid, he notes as he feels a blissful brand of numbness flood through his veins. His vision slowly stops swimming and he's able to make out Louis' worried blue eyes and a young boy standing beside them that has a silencer embedded to his dark neck.

The boy has a freshly shaven head, warm eyes, and a massive scar lining the hollow of his left cheek. He's wearing gloves and a doctor's scrubs and he is holding the injector that was probably just in Harry's head. He nods at Harry in greeting and he forces his chapped lips to smile back at him in turn. The boy turns to Louis and starts to move his hands rapidly in different ways. Harry looks back at the ceiling and tries to breathe properly.

"H, this is Ember. He's one of the best medical doctors that we have and he's going to help me take care of you, okay?" Louis says. "He says you have four broken ribs, a concussion, and a minor puncture to your left lung. You are also dehydrated and starving, and you've lost quite a bit of blood. But he's going to get you back in top shape, alright?"

Harry nods. The ceiling has a pattern of colorful circles painted on it. Odd.

"Ember's going to be checking on you for the next few weeks, alright?" Harry coughs. "Do you think you can swallow some sustenance pills for me, love?"

Harry shakes his head.

"That's fine, we'll just inject you for the time being until you can swallow proper." Harry listens as footsteps move across the room. "Thanks for everything, Ember. Say hi to your Dad for me when you go visit them."

Silence settles over the room once the door shuts behind Ember. And Harry feels trapped in this faux safety of serenity that the injector is making him feel. Because behind this well-fabricated façade of calm, there is a toiling storm of anger and sadness that is threatening to overrun his system once again. He feels calm but he knows that he's a monster, he knows that he doesn't deserve to feel at peace.

"I killed Gemma," he says. He feels like that's all he can say.

"You didn't kill Gemma." Louis says from across the room. "The Movement did. They killed Gemma just like how they killed Lottie, just like how they killed Liam. That's what The Movement does. They kill and they take until their perfect world of pristine white is nothing but red."

"Liam," Harry's lungs protest every time he breathes too much, let alone speak. "When?"

"Two months ago." Louis comes closer after flicking the lights off once more. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want to accept it."

Harry wants to cry, he wants to feel upset. He wants to mourn the loss of his friend but can't because of this fucking Calming Fluid. Liam was his first friend, ever. He was this radiant source of light and happiness that made Harry feel secure with himself. He was just so caring and innocent. Liam would never turn on The Movement. Ever. He shouldn't be dead. He shouldn't be like this.

"How?"

"Simon shot him in front of me as a warning."

Harry coughs, his lungs burning with pain and his arm tingling from where the IV is moving while he moves. The ceiling's eclectic pattern of circles is swirling and he hurts. He feels like he has swallowed an ocean and can't find a way to release the bitter saltwater that is filling his body. Louis is crying, he can hear as he inhales shakily and Harry feels like the world is slowly falling apart. I want this to stop, he thinks, I want everything to stop.

"I loved Liam," Louis confessed around his tears. "It wasn't a romantic love but I loved him nonetheless. He wasn't my perfect mate but he was the man that was constant and honest while the rest of the world is bathed in lies. And The Movement took him from me all in the name of theatrics, because that's what they do."

Louis is on the foot of his bed now, Harry thinks that he's bouncing his leg up and down, a nervous twitch that he's watched him do several times when he was so angry about something but didn't know how to put what he feels in words.

"The Movement kills people that shouldn't be killed. That's how they keep people that aren't predictable in their control. They threaten lives as easily as they extinguish them. They make it clear that everyone around you, everyone that you love, is replaceable."

"Wrong," Harry croaks.

Because They are wrong. People like Gemma, people like Liam, are not replaceable. They're so valid and worth so much. Everybody is worth something. The Movement tries to disconnect everyone from feeling pity and compassion towards someone else, but They can't do that. It's wrong.

"I know." Louis whispers. "And I know you think that Gemma's death is your fault, but it's not. The Movement terrified you and manipulated you until you were nothing else than the same gun that killed Liam. They made you this inanimate thing that they abused for their own sources of evil. You can't blame yourself for Gemma, Harry. Because if you blame yourself, if you keep allowing them to manipulate you, then you're just letting them win."

Louis' wrist projects a hologram of a warning side that blares a blue light on the ceiling of the otherwise dark room. Harry listens as Louis mumbles a quick curse word as a result of it.

"But we're not going to let them win, alright?" Louis stands and hovers over Harry. His hand gently traces over a tender part of his cheek. "We're not going to let them get away with what they did to Gemma or Liam."

Harry forces himself to nod. He feels the Calming Fluid starting to slowly dissipate from his system. He feels the waves of sadness and anger starting to slowly ebb towards the forefront of his mind.

"I have to go talk to Zayn," Louis mutters. "Get some rest and remember what I said."

Louis leaves the room, closing the door and locking it behind him. Harry stares at the ceiling and feels tears start to roll down his bruised cheeks.

"I'm an Unconformist," he tells the ceiling through the burning of his lungs and the tears that are slowly choking him.

And the wild thing is, he's not even ashamed to say it.


	22. Chapter 22

Harry stares at the blank expanse of plush grass that surrounds the massive house from where he's perched on the window. A soft lull of wind is sifting delicately through the luscious leaves that adorns the trees and the sky is a dazzling azure that's achingly reminiscent of Louis' and Harry feels revolted at how artificial the scene before him looks.

Harry leans his head against the chipped window frame and lets a desolate sigh slip through his chapped lips. It's all a lie. The beautiful sky, the warm sun, the soft breeze -- it's all just there to pose as this false sense of security that distracts everyone from the reality that this society, this entire  _ world, _ is a cold, vile place. For every chirping bird there's an innocent person silenced; for every beautiful day there's a night filled with darkness and evil lies to go with it, and Harry had never even sought to realize the contrast of the world he lives in until he realized that he is one of the dark attributes that lurks in the shadows and makes this 'perfect' world a little more jaded.

"Have you seen Louis?" A projected voice sounds from behind him. Harry swings his legs over the frame to turn back into the dark alcove of the room that he's called home for the past few weeks. "He never came down for lunch."

Harry shakes his head and reaches out for the wheelchair that he's been using to move around lately. He shakily eases himself into the rickety metal chair before wheeling himself and his IV towards where Zayn is hovering by the doorway. He stops right in front of Zayn, close enough to where he can smell the familiar scent of his warm musk and see the small traces of stubble that he missed while shaving across his jawline.

"He told me he'd be back by sunset," Harry's voice is still dry from misuse, but it sounds a bit more normal.

"Alright," Zayn nods to himself before the walking around Harry and perching on the small chair that's nestled in the corner of the room. Harry watches him, taking in his sharp cheekbones and warm eyes and the vulnerable slouch to his shoulders that's contrasted by his heavy leather jacket. "How do you feel?"

_ Like a monster.  _ "I'm fine."

Zayn shakes his head, his cheeks lift to conform to the small smile that graces his dark lips. He taps his pointer finger to his forehead knowingly.

"You can't lie to me, Harry." Zayn says, Harry watches as the sunlight slowly filters in through the open window and casts golden shapes across Zayn's cheek. "I'm in your head, you know."

Harry shifts cautiously in his chair, the familiar ache of pain zapping through his ribs as he does so. Zayn is staring at him with a knowing glint in his eye and Harry feels like a small bird trapped in the middle of a tornado. He's drained, he's weak, and he's angry with himself. He doesn't have the energy to deal with Zayn's mind games, and he opens his mouth to tell him just that but stops when he Zayn raises up his hand and shakes his head once more. The sunlight glints off of his silencer and Harry's vengeful mind actually pauses to ponder the fact that he knew him before that tech was permanently embedded to his skin.

"You're killing yourself, Harry." Zayn deadpans. "You're not eating and you're hardly speaking. You're killing yourself and you're making Louis and I watch."

Harry looks down at his lap, he doesn't want to listen to this.

"This isn't how she would want you to act, you know. She would die if she saw you like this."

"In case you haven't noticed," Harry clears his throat and shifts in his seat, a sharp jolt of pain tears through his stomach when he does but he is slowly starting to become immune to it. "Gemma is already dead. I killed her. Gemma can't want anything anymore, she can't think, she can't share her opinions, she can't do anything because she doesn't exist anymore. I made her stop existing."

Zayn tightens his jaw and leans forward to smack Harry in the back of the head, Harry winces but doesn't fight him off.

"You're being a dick." Zayn grits out between his clenched teeth. "You're being a total arsehole, and I know you're hurting -- I know that you've been stuck in your own personal hell, but that doesn't mean that you have to drag everyone else down with you. You're not the only one that loved Gemma. Louis, Cara, and I -- we're hurting too. But that doesn't mean that we're pointedly forcing ourselves to waste away because she's not with us anymore. And I know that you think that you murdered her, but you didn't. The Movement did. And it sucks -- it fucking hurts like hell -- to know that Gemma won't magically revive one day. But just because she's dead, doesn't mean that we are, too."

Harry shakes his head, "I --"

"No, Curly. I'm talking now, so you're going to fucking listen. Gemma's physical being might be gone forever but that doesn't mean that the memories, the small pieces of her that she branded into our lives, are dead too. She's still here, she's in every small thing that we do. She's the sunlight that welcomes us every morning. You can't lose sight of who she was as a person now that she's dead. You can't forget how much she loved you and wanted to protect you. You can't disregard the small part of you that sounds a bit like Gemma that's telling you to get your arse in gear and start functioning like a human again. Listen to that voice, embrace the memory of her. Eat your fucking food. And stop blaming yourself for something that's not even your own control. Get your shit together, Harry."

His heartbeat is sounding in his ears and all he can hear is the rapid staccato of his own body working to make him breathe and an echo of Zayn's monologue. A breeze is coming through the window and he feels cold. He can see the fragile bones of his wrist through his nearly-translucent skin. He watches as one of his own tears hit the skin there.

"You care for me, don't you?" Harry whispers.

One of Zayn's warm hands comes into his line of view, he feels the rough pads of his fingers as he grips Harry's hand that is free of the IV.

"I've cared for you ever since the first day I sat beside you at the idiotic job working for The Movement," Zayn's thumb traces over Harry’s protruding veins. "And, no, not because you're Gemma's brother, or because we wanted you for the Unconformists. But because you're you, and you are so unaware of all of the potential you have. Of how amazing you are."

"I'm sorry I'm this way," Harry is letting his tears run freely down his bruised cheeks, now. "I'm sorry that I've been hurting everyone else."

"It's understandable. Gemma meant more to you than anyone else, and I know how it hurts to lose a sister. But you can't let yourself die, Harry. You can't."

There's a lot of things that are wrong with this world, including himself. There are people dying and people that are completely unaware of it. There are evil people that somehow have taken the reigns of the government and then there's kind hearted people that will never get a fighting chance to fix it. There are people that can hardly talk and others that can speak as much as they want because they were born into it. There are so many wrong things, so much darkness, that it's hard to see the light. It's hard to see the worth of living.

But the light is there. The light is nestled in hidden places, in the small things that can be overlooked with ease. The light is in people like Louis, people like Zayn, people like Gemma, and no amount of darkness -- no amount of lies and greed and bloodshed, can ever put out their flame. And that light, the light that promotes equality and self-expression and love, is what life is living for. That light is the thing that Harry has steadily ignored the existence of until Zayn fucking Malik smacked him in the back of the head and forced him to realize that there are a lot of right things that exist in this world, too.

"Tell Ember that I'll eat my dinner today." Harry says after a few raw moments of silence. "And thank you."

Harry looks up at him in time to catch a private smile etched across his thin lips. Zayn slips his hand out from Harry's own and stands.

"I'd do anything for you, idiot. Don't forget it."

Zayn leaves and Harry feels his mouth form to a foreign shape that he hasn't felt in weeks. He's smiling.

//

Harry takes a small bite out of the warm sandwich that Ember left him with a few minutes ago, chewing meticulously before forcing himself to swallow the bits down his raw throat. The sun is setting low beneath the trees that outline the back garden of the house and Harry only has the blue light of an old scribe to illuminate the parchment paper that he has sat in front of him. He takes another sip of the cold water and picks up what he thinks is called a pen, which is just like a stylus but it's not made for tech.

He presses the pen to the paper once more, grimacing at the foreign feeling that results from it but powers through it nonetheless. His stomach is starting to become full from the sandwich that he has been eating and the music downstairs has been turned down until it just sounds like a steady hum. A stray teardrop falls onto the paper and he smudges it before continuing to write.

_ Dear Mum, _

_ I've gotten word that Granddad has taken you to the Outlands for the time being so that you can be safe. I don't know whether to be ecstatic or terrified by the news. _

_ Louis has told me that Simon has put out an alert to turn the both of us in for ransom. I know that they won't find me where I am but I have no idea if they'll be able to find you. You're all I have left, Mum, and I don't want to lose you. I wish that I could see you one more time. I wish that I would've hugged you tighter the last time I had the chance. Nothing feels safe anymore, and it's hard to know that I won't be there -- that I probably will never know if something has happened to you. _

_ Please don't let anything happen to you. _

Harry drops the pen on the desk and wipes beneath his eyes. He hasn't thought much about anything other than Gemma these past few weeks, but his Mum is slowly moving to the forefront of his thoughts. When Ember came in he used the paper to tell Harry that the Outlands had been attacked and he wasn't sure if there were any casualties or not. And Harry is trying to find every inch of strength that his talk with Zayn has given him, but he can't.

His mum is all he has left, and he is terrified that she's gone now, too.

Harry picks up the pen once more after taking another bite out of his sandwich. His chest heaves with the force of his tears and he feels like his heart is a piece of porcelain that keeps being dropped over and over again.

_ I don't even know if you're alive now, but I hope that you are. You mean so much to me, and I know that I've never been able to articulate that to you. I know that I have never taken the time to tell you how thankful I am for you. But I am. I really, really am. _

_ I'm so thankful for the days that you've spent holding me as I sobbed after Gemma left, I'm so thankful for how you placated me after Dusty's death. I'm so glad that I had somebody that was there for me when I felt like I was all alone. You're the best mother that I could ever ask for. And I don't want you to die. Please, don't die. _

"Harry," Louis' voice sounds from behind and he jumps. He didn't even hear the door open.

"Oh, shit. I didn't mean to scare you like that." Louis says and Harry turns his wheelchair to face him. His cheeks are red and his hair is matted with sweat. There's a bruise forming on his cheek, too. "You shouldn't be sitting like that, it's bad for your lungs. Do you want me to help you to the bed?"

Harry drops the pen once more and wipes under his eyes before nodding. Louis doesn't acknowledge his tears and Harry doesn't say anything about the way that Louis' hands are shaking nervously. They've began to make an art of ignoring each other's flaws. Its comforting.

Harry grips his hand as he slowly settles into the bed over the covers. Louis stands and flicks on one of the smaller lights before laying down beside Harry on the bed. He's warm, which is normal, but he's still shaking. Harry outstretches his hand that isn't hooked into the IV to rest over Louis', effectively making them stop shaking.

"You ate today," Louis says to the ceiling.

Harry shifts in the bed, "I talked to Zayn today. He helped."

Louis' thin fingers slowly entangle with Harry's. Harry feels a blush color his cheeks and a smile stretch across his face. He's not sure why.

"He's amazing, isn't he?" Louis says, his voice raspy and warm. "I love that lad quite a bit."

And there's that word. That word that has been slowly niggling at his mind every single time he spends more than five minutes with Louis. Love. Harry feels warm around Louis, he feels safe and happy. And he doesn't know what that means, he doesn't know if that's love. He just knows that he feels something that he has never felt before. And that, for some reason, he wants to finish his letter by telling his Mum that he might've found someone that he would want to save his words for.

Harry tightens his hand around Louis' and let's his leg press against Louis'. He smells like fresh fruit and a kindling fire and Harry feels his heartbeat began to race while his mind ebbs over with a certain brand of serenity. He's happy with Louis. Worrying over notions about Louis and love can wait, he wants to bask into this fleeting feeling of security instead.

"We've kissed," the words leave Harry's mouth unbidden. "It was my first kiss."

Louis shudders out a delicate breath, "I know, I'm sorry."

"Don't," Harry whispers. "Please, don't be sorry."

Louis' moves their hands to rest on his stomach. They move with every shallow inhale that he takes in, and Harry feels like he's drowning in the tense silence that ensues.  _ What if he doesn't feel this thing that I do? _

"How did it make you feel?" Louis asks after a bit.

"Calm," Harry answers honestly. "I felt like my entire world was falling apart, but when you kissed me it made everything pause. It made everything feel okay for a second. I liked it."

Louis sits up in the bed but still keeps their hands together. Harry feels his breath catch in his throat from how disarmingly blue Louis' eyes look even in the low light of the room. Harry takes in the man in front of him, this man that has so much power and confidence wrapped up in soft edges and a quirky smile, and he can't help but feel like he wants to just sit and admire what he's like for days on end.

"I felt the same way," Louis murmurs. "We fit. Kissing you was a lot like coming home after a long day."

"Was that," Harry clears his throat. "Was that how kissing Liam made you feel?"

Louis leans closer to Harry and gently moves a strand of his hair away from his forehead. His breath is hitting Harry's chapped lips and his heart is thumping faster than a hummingbird's wings.

"Kissing you meant something entirely different than when I kissed Liam."

Louis leans closer to Harry infinitesimally, and Harry begins to perch upwards on his elbows, letting his eyelashes flutter closed and his lips start to brush against Louis' -- and it all feels so electrifying and monumental.

And then the door opens and they jolt away from each other like they have just been electrocuted.

"Louis," Zayn breathlessly says as soon as he opens the door. "You have to come downstairs. Bring H."


	23. Chapter 23

Harry takes in the scene before him in relation to the intervals of his heartbeat in his own ears.

The man on the Telly says Louis' name and a picture of him is plastered on the screen. Thud. Everyone in the room whips their heads towards Louis, their eyes wide in shock. Thud. The footage changes to a scene of explosions triggering throughout a building, sparks and flames throwing everywhere. Thud. Cara stands up from where she was sitting in the corner and asks for someone to turn the television off. Thud. The man on the telly reveals that the source of the bombs came from the bracelets. Thud. He blames Louis (and in turn, The Unconformists) for installing software in everyone's bracelets that could trigger the small explosions. Thud. The man claims that the Unconformists can trigger the explosions at any time possible and that everyone should consider the rebels as the enemy that is killing entire pods at a time. Thud. The Movement is officially claiming a state of war against the Unconformists and are calling to attack Louis, and anyone that is affiliated with him. Thud. Louis squeezes Harry's hand from where they were conjoined for the entire time before clearing his throat and stepping away. Thud. Someone turns off the television and everyone begins to speak to one another. Thud. The bracelets, they're all wearing them. They can all be killed in any given moment. Thud.

"We have to get the bracelets off," Louis murmurs, he raises his voice and repeats himself. "I have to take the bracelets off. And we have to leave. Someone call Paul."

"How are you supposed to get these off? They're embedded in our skin," Cara says.

"I know how to do it, but the first few that I do will be quite bloody and will take a lengthy amount of time. But I will take care of this." Louis inhales and runs a shaking hand through his fringe. "I won't rest until I know that The Movement can come at us through something that I've made. Has anyone gotten Paul, yet?"

"I have him," someone says from the crowd.

Harry watches as Louis disappears in the mesh of the other's before wheeling away from the din of yelling, anxious people. He catches sight of Zayn hovering in the corner of door and heads towards him.

"Nice to see you outside of that room," Zayn grins and shoves his hands in his pockets.

Harry tracks the movement of his hands, eyes narrowing in on the bracelet and gives into the feeling of dread that pools in the depths of his stomach. They're all literally walking around with ticking time-bombs. Zayn tilts his head for Harry to follow him into the kitchen, and he does.

"Ember can probably give you an injector that'll fix your pain, but you have to eat steady amounts so that'll it will work to its full power, alright?" Harry nods and raises his eyebrows when Zayn leans down closer to him. "Is there something going on between you and Lou that I should know about?"

Harry purses his lips and shakes his head, cheeks coloring when Zayn gives him a knowing look.

"There's seriously nothing happening between us. I think. Don't look at me like that," Harry shakes his head. "There's much more to worry about than if Louis likes me or not."

Zayn sighs and leans against the counter, "You're right. I'm going to go talk to Ember about giving you that injector, and you should probably talk to Louis about getting that bracelet off of you. He needs to get the main targets clean, first."

Harry swallows and nods, staring at his bracelet while Zayn leaves him to go hunt down Ember.

//

"I fucking hate these things," Louis murmurs to him under his breath.

It's nearing to be two in the morning and the house is in utter chaos. After Louis got off of the phone with Paul, he announced that they were all to board three crafts with everything that they can pack and head towards some secret location where The Movement can't find them. Ever since, everyone has been packing their clothes and other small totems that Harry didn't really understand the purpose of but are supposedly 'obsolete pieces of the world's history.' Meanwhile, Ember has injected Harry with something that makes him feel like an entirely new person and he feels like he is soaring and falling all at once.

"Me too," Harry murmurs as he watches Louis grab one of his tools from his box. "But probably not nearly as much as you. How many have you taken off now?"

"Thirty-seven."

Harry twitches away from the sharp edge that Louis is about to make an incision in his skin with, and Louis holds his arm steady with a gentle yet firm hand.

"You should get some rest," Harry whispers. Most of the others in the room that are waiting for Louis to take of their bracelets are dozing off and he doesn't want to be rude.

"I can't," Louis justifies and Harry flinches as the metal sinks into his skin. He pointedly looks away from where Louis is working with his gloved hands to remove the bracelet. "But I will hopefully be able to take these bastard things off in my sleep soon enough."

"I don't think you should sleep while messing with people's nerve endings."

"You're not nearly as funny as you think you are, love," Louis says, but his eyes are shining with a happy brand of fondness. "But you're probably right. How do you feel?"

"Scared, sad." Harry answers honestly. "I keep feeling like Gemma should be here to help you and stand by you, not me."

Louis pauses from where he's working with Harry's bracelet to shift closer to him.  His eyes are sincere and breathtaking and his mouth is slightly open. He looks tired and he has had a grumpy tilt to his mouth for the past hour but it melts away as their knees press together and Harry spares him a soft smile.

"I wouldn't rather have anyone else with me as the world crumbles around us. Not even Gemma. I'm glad you're here, love. You make me feel calm, too."

And that. That's the light that makes this life worth living.

//

"How do you feel?" Louis asks him as the hovercraft subsides from a sudden rush of turbulence.

Harry leans back against his headrest and closes his eyes. His bones feel heavy from exhaustion and his ribs are still a bit sore from his injuries, but he knows that that's not what Louis is asking him about. And maybe, if the craft wasn't so full with curious ears and prying minds, he'd answer Louis openly, but there are over a hundred people filling every inch of space in the small confines of the craft that still see him as one of the vessels of The Movement, and he'd rather not kindle their fire of hatred towards him.

"I'm slowly getting better," Harry mumbles. Judging by the absence of light filtering in from the small windows, he'd guess that the heavy curtain of night has overtaken the sky. "Not much I can do but accept it, yeah? How do you feel?"

Louis' thigh presses warmly against his own, Harry watches from the corner of his eye as Louis' oil-stained hand settles on Harry's thigh without reason. He inhales and looks away, slowly inching his hand down to grasp Louis' smaller fingers between his own, giving into the familiar sensation of Louis' calloused hand fitting into the softer swells of his own. They do this a lot now, but they don't really talk about it. It's just a way to make them feel like they have something to tether onto in a riptide of chaos, and Harry likes it. He gazes back at Louis, who is smiling tiredly while letting his eyes slip closed from exhaustion, and thinks that maybe he likes this, too.

"Exhausted, but okay. I've got mostly everyone's bracelets off. We're going to land in a few to refuel and bring the survivors from the Outlands on here. Paul says that my family is first in line to get their bracelets off, next."

"That's good," Harry grazes his thumb over one of the veins on Louis' hand. "Have you heard anything about my Mum?"

A grim silence overtakes the small alcove of space between their shared breaths, and that's answer enough. Harry closes his eyes, too, and sinks lower in his seat until he can lay his head on Louis' sharp shoulder. He waits for it, the merciless feeling of his heart breaking as the memories Mum's delicate smile and weary eyes joins the list of Things That He'll Never Get To See Anymore, but nothing comes. It's only then that Harry realizes that there's nothing of his heart left to break, The Movement has taken everything away from him, has stripped him of his own soul.

"I wish that I could cry," Harry confesses. "But I'm afraid that there's nothing left inside of me. I'm empty."

"You're wrong," Louis whispers, clutching his hand tighter and moving where they're entwined to rest over his beating chest. "You're not empty, you're upset. And I promise that there's more to live for."

Harry opens his eyes and moves to look at Louis, with his thin lips and sharp cheekbones and his hair falling messily over his eyes. His long eyelashes are hitting the circles beneath his eyes and he looks so delicate. But he's not delicate, he's Louis. And Louis is the only thing that has been holding him together for the past few weeks.

"You're right," _ I have you to live for. _ But he doesn't say that aloud, because the notion of caring for someone. Of having another weakness present that The Movement can capitalize on, is scary.

"And she could not even be dead," Louis states. "Her body was never found in the remains, she could've escaped."

Harry shakes his head, his mind flashing back to the memory of her hollow eyes while she told Harry that she was already dead inside.

"I feel like she wouldn't have ran," he states simply. "You should get some rest."

Louis shifts and moves his other arm to lay over Harry's shoulders. He leans down to press a quick kiss to Harry's head, and Harry relishes in the millisecond of warmth and safety that that brief touch causes to spread through him.

"You'll stay while I nap, yeah?" Louis asks into the matted curls of his hair.

"I'll stay."

Harry moves to press his face into the sharp crevice of Louis' collar bone, taking in the warm smell of him that he has started to accustom to as home before slowly giving into the soft ebbs of sleep.

//

"Wake up, you lazy fuckers." Zayn's projected voice jolts Harry out of a pleasant sleep that actually didn't contain a nightmare, for once. "You need to use the the loo and eat before the passengers are rotated."

Louis groans and tightens his hold on Harry, pulling him blissfully closer into the addictive gravitational pull of LouisLouisLouis and making him feel even more drowsy. Harry nuzzles against the fabric of his shirt placatingly before he is yanked away by Zayn's gentle hands.

"I understand that you two are cute and tired, but we have shit to do and I refuse to deal with either of you whining later on when you have to wait four hours to use the bathroom. Wake up."

"I hate you," Louis snaps at Zayn grumpily while Harry delicately disentangles from where they were holding hands. "I am a valuable person that needs at least four hours of sleep every single day and you have the nerve to take something so beautiful from me."

"Are we talking about sleep or Harry, now?"

Harry makes a confused sound in the back of his throat and stretches off the remnants of sleep from his weary bones; sleeping in two unforgivably metal chairs was not kind to his ribs.

"Harry, probably." Louis shrugs and shoots Harry a sleepy grin that he can't help but to return.

_ I want to kiss you again, _ and it's that. It's thoughts like that, he should stop immediately. Harry stares down at the torn holes on the knees of his trousers and forces himself to remember that Louis doesn't need him and war isn't the time to fall in love with someone.

"I have to wee," Louis stands up and brushes his hands off on his thighs. "And you should eat and get some tea in your system. We have a long day in front of us."

Louis walks away, his lithe body working gracefully in between the throngs of people that are laying on the floor of the hovercraft in the fits of listless sleep on the way to the bathroom.

"I don't even know where the fucking kitchen is," Harry murmurs to himself, leaning back on the seat and throwing an arm over his eyes, aiming to fall back asleep.

"That's what you have me for," Harry can practically visualize Zayn's stupid smirk even though he can't even see him. "Cmon, get up. Your body is going to be in a world of pain if you don't get some proper food in your system."

Harry slowly stands up and follows Zayn towards the kitchen grumpily. He feels like he hasn't slept properly in months and his stomach still turns at the thought of how much food Zayn has been practically forcing him to eat lately. He wishes that Louis didn't leave for the bathroom, because then he probably could've pouted and acted pitiful enough to where Louis would talk Zayn out of making him eat so much.

"If you eat all of your food then I have a present for you," Zayn projects to him in a lilting voice as they round a threshold and enter a small kitchen.

The kitchen is practically a mirror image of the one that they left behind at the house, it's small with a myriad of oversized steel machines taking up most of the sparse space with a small counter nestled into the corner. Zayn programs the system to give Harry a sandwich and a cup of warm tea, and he makes him sit down on one of the backless chairs while he eats.

"The survivors from the Outlands should come in a few minutes," Zayn tells him while he scrolls through his scribe. "I figure you're going to want to stay here with me and Lou instead of switching crafts with everyone else?"

Harry nods and takes a sip of tea. He turns in his seat and watches as Cara and a few others walk throughout the craft and gently wake people up. Zayn leans beside him and bites back a small yawn. Harry turns to look at him and takes note of the circles under his eyes that are like a mirror image of Louis', he looks tired but still inhuman, and Harry figures that he has probably gotten just as much sleep as he and Louis had, seeing as he's taken on Louis' leadership responsibilities so that he wouldn't have to worry about orchestrating everything while also removing everyone's bracelets.

"This doesn't feel like a war," Harry murmurs. "It feels like a game of hide and seek."

"That's because we have been carefully keeping all of the videos about the devastation away from everyone," Zayn explains. "It's best this way, to feel disconnected from the war. Because if we tell everyone, if we update everybody on every pod that's destroyed, every life that is lost to the merciless machine of The Movement, then chaos will ensue and the Unconformists will be split in half between people that want to run and want to fight. And we can't fight ourselves and fight The Movement at the same time -- we're our last hope."

"I don't understand," Harry finishes his sandwich. "Is it really that bad?"

"Do you want to know?"

Harry shakes his head, "I'd rather not."

Zayn nods and takes the teacup out of Harry's hands, "Then let's talk about something happier, yeah? Like the gift that Louis got you."

Harry turns in his chair to look directly at Zayn, "What gift?"

"He had Ed grab this when he went back to our old Pod to assess the damage," Zayn explains as he stands and grabs something from his back pocket. "And he told me to give it to you and act like it was just some coincidence, but really I just think he wanted to make you smile and keep his Heartless Bad Boy Persona alive, so. Here it is."

"Lou couldn't be heartless if he tried," Harry murmurs and takes the small object from Zayn's hands, willing his cheeks to lose their bright red flush of fondness while he turns it over in his hands. He chokes back on a small gasp as he looks at the engraving on the side.

"Gemma's hoverboard," he whispers to himself in disbelief. "This is what made me begin to talk to Louis."

This is what started everything.

Harry feels like he can hear his own heartbeat reverberating in his ears as he slowly stands from where he's sitting and looks at where he and Louis were just sleeping. He runs his thumb over the cool metal of the collapsed hoverboard and watched as Louis, with his bright smile and thin wrists, walks through the crowd of people leaving the craft. His heart is racing even louder as he drives his feet to where Louis is currently standing, he feels his hands shake and his veins burst with something electric as he stops in front of Louis, giving into the smile that takes form on his trembling lips before leaning down and capturing Louis' slightly parted mouth in a kiss.

He clutches the board in his palm before wrapping his arms around Louis' waist. Harry presses into the kiss, this foreign, intimate, beautiful kiss once Louis rises on his toes to return the pressure. It feels like everything has stopped around them as their chapped lips slot together perfectly and a salty tear rolls down Harry's tender cheeks. Louis slides a hand in Harry's curls and everything in this world with all of it's chaos and death and darkness ceases and boils down until it's just him, Louis, and the object that made Harry who he is today.

"Thank you," Harry whispers against Louis' lips when they part for a ragged breath. He feels like a universe could expand between their moist lips, like they're unstoppable, like he shouldn't hide from something that actually makes him feel human any longer. "Thank you."

And maybe this is moving too fast, maybe Harry should think about everything before he keeps hurdling forward into this dangerous thing that is HimAndLouis. But he can't think, he can't rationalize. Not when he has one of the most beautiful men standing in front of him while clutching one of his last reminders of his sister. He gave me Gemma. He gave me a reason to fight.

"I.." Louis inhales before pressing a chaste kiss to Harry's lips. "I had help."

"That doesn't make what you've done for me any less important," Harry pulls back from the kiss, he's crying. But he doesn't feel completely sad like how he usually does. Louis reaches up and gingerly wipes away one of Harry's tears.

Louis' hand tightens in Harry's hair infinitesimally and then they're kissing again before pulling away to regain their breath. Harry looks at Louis, with his crooked smile and lightly flushed cheeks. His eyes look like the ocean, and Harry wants to drown in them.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: character death!!! as always, message me on tumblr for a summary.

The survivors have been slowly filtering in for the past twenty minutes, which means that Louis had to immediately begin to work on helping the remaining Unconformist's rid themselves of their bracelets and Zayn had to begin rationing food for people to eat. Meanwhile, Harry has been sitting behind Louis, legs folded in a chair and watching as he uses just two small tools to rid everyone of their bracelets. He has gotten the removal down to a science now, and he can take any bracelet off in nearly a minute, but Harry can still see the stress visible in the way that his shoulders slouch after every grateful person he finishes.

"Do you know what makes them explode?" Harry asks once Louis is done stitching together a dark-skinned woman's now completely bare wrist.

"I think I do," Louis mumbles. "See, years ago The Movement used to track how many words someone has tried to say after their count was over, and if it exceeded a certain number, the bracelets would emit a small shock from a satellite remote, of sorts. But the shocks stopped after a few months and were never deadly so we never paid much mind to them."

Louis holds up a discarded bracelet and points to a small lever embedded in the metal interior of it.

"See, this is the thing that counts down each number of word you say, and it's what I would manipulate to give people more words. And I would figure that this is also what administers the shock. The shock was always delayed fifteen seconds after the word count was exceeded. My theory is that if The Movement triggers the lever to move enough, then the shock would register tenfold until it causes an explosion in a delayed amount of time. If the lever is held down, then whoever is near it will explode." Louis puts the bracelet down. "If I'm right, then that means that I could trigger the explosion and use it as a weapon manually. I want to test it and then contact Paul and tell him that I might have found a way to fight back at The Movement, but I don't think I'll find the time."

"Let me test it," Harry says, sitting up a bit straighter. Louis tilts his head upwards to stare at Harry, his eyebrows furrowed and his azure eyes succumbing to a state of being concerned. "I mean, it's as easy as just flipping the trigger down and then throwing it, right? And the hovercraft is only going to be landed for fifteen more minutes so that's the only way we could actually make an explosion and still remain undetected."

"But what if there isn't a delay? You could literally blow yourself up, Harry. I'd be an idiot to let you try it."

"But what if The Movement finds us? We don't have weapons and we'll be dead before the battle even begins. It's worth the try if it means that we can defend ourselves."

"I'm sorry, Harry." Louis turns back around. "But I'm not letting you do that, I can't be the reason why you die."

"But if I don't try it then someone else will, and the risk will be just as large for them to die." Harry rationalizes and leans over Louis and grabs one of the discarded bracelets. "And who's to say that my life holds any more worth than someone else's?"

"H, I'm serious. I don't want you to do this."

"I want to, Louis. I want to do something to help. Everyone else is being productive and I'm just sitting by and wasting space. What's the point of calling myself an Unconformist when I don't even act like one?"

Louis turns around completely and inhales, their eyes hold contact for a few, heated moments until Louis looks down and nods his head.

"Fine, but have Zayn show you an unmarked spot so that we won't cause any distress to the survivors."

Harry grins and stands, Louis following suit until they're chest to chest, with Louis' breath hitting his neck and a bracelet hanging limply in Harry's hand.

"Be safe," Louis murmurs and presses a chaste yet glorious kiss to his mouth. "I'm serious."

Harry nods and walks towards where Zayn is sitting by the open doorway of the craft, cheeks burning the entire way.

"Come with me," Harry says when he's close enough. "Lou has given me a mission."

Zayn smirks and nods without a sound before standing. Harry looks away, feeling a rush of embarrassment from the knowing look that Zayn is shooting him before jumping off of the craft and onto the desolate ground from where they've landed.

"What's this mission?" Zayn asks once he lands beside him.

Harry shields his eyes from the early morning sun to take in his surroundings. There's nothing spectacular about the landscape that they're in, its mostly void with dry grass and a sparse amount of evergreen trees.

"He wants me to test his theory on what makes the bracelets explode and told me that you could take me to an unmarked spot."

Zayn nods and begins to walk away from where the four hovercrafts that holds everyone are landed. Harry pauses, letting the brisk wind filter through his thin shirt to watch Zayn as he walks away. He is always a bit taken aback by how easily people agree to do whatever Louis tells them to do, but with Zayn it's truly amazing. Both Zayn and Louis have this disturbing amount of loyalty and trust in one another, and they have this connection that involves unspoken words and knowing smiles that makes Harry a tad envious. He wonders if Louis would act this way for him, but he quickly slides the thought away. Louis cares about him, and that's all he should focus on.

"So do you guys do that often?" Zayn asks once Harry catches up to him.

"Do what?" Harry clutches the bracelet tightly as he jumps over a small creek that was in the middle of his path.

"Kiss each other like you're characters in those books that Gemma used to read."

Harry pouts down at the ground when he nearly steps on an insect before looking up at Zayn, who is silhouetted by the dewy hues of the sunrise.

"I don't even know what a book is," Harry states bluntly. "And today was the first time that I've ever kissed him. Besides that one night with Dusty."

"Really?" Zayn asks, turning around with raised eyebrows like he doesn't believe Harry. "The way you guys acted around each other and looked at one another made me think that you guys kissed all of the time."

Harry shakes his head, "We're not like.. together, or anything. I just feel things for him, and I think he feels things for me, too."

Zayn nods to himself, "Do you think that he's like.. your mate?"

Harry stops midstep and stares up towards the sky that is a hue that is reminiscent of Louis' eyes.

"I don't know," Harry says honestly. "I don't know how it's supposed to feel when you're mated, or when you fall in love with someone. I just know that I feel like there's a part of Louis in everything that's beautiful and pure in this world, and that he makes me feel safe and protected. And I want to make him feel safe and protected, too."

A small silence lulls over them as they begin walking again, Harry notices that Zayn's head still has a scar from where Liam hit him with a vase ages ago.

"What about you? Did you have a mate?"

"No," Zayn shakes his head. "But I do love someone."

"Do I know this person?"

Zayn clears his throat and Harry smiles privately when he notes the red tint that's present on his cheeks, "Yes, you. You know him. We can test the bracelet here. Do you want me to stay?"

"You should probably go," Harry says. "If I'm not back in fifteen minutes then you should probably leave without me. I don't want Louis to see me if anything bad happens."

"Be careful, idiot." Zayn pats Harry on the back before walking away. "I've grown fond of you and would hate it if you hurt yourself."

Harry smiles to himself and watches as Zayn walks away from him.  He waits until he is sure that Zayn is gone and looks down at the bracelet. He presses the lever down and closes his eyes before throwing it away from him.

//

Harry comes back to the hovercraft with a pounding heart and a wild smile pasted on his face. He weaves through the people that look half-asleep and mentally worn back to where Louis has stationed his little workplace to remove bracelets.

"The bracelets have a minute delay," Harry tells him as soon as he's close enough. "And the explosion was mildly sizable, I think we can use them as weapons."

"Harry," Louis looks up from where he was taking the bracelet off of a young girl and smiles. "Did you get hurt?" Harry shakes his head.

Louis smiles at him with the ferocity of a thousand suns and Harry can't help but revel in the warm tug that pulls his heart to his stomach as a result of his crinkled eyes and smiling mouth.

"That's great," Louis clears his throat and looks back at the girl in front of him. "Harry, this is my sister, Daisy. And then this is Phoebe, Fizzy, Doris, Ernest and my mum, Jay.".

"Oh," Harry looks at the group of people with warm smiles and elfin faces around him. Louis' family. "Hi."

"I know you," one of the older twins says, she already has her bracelet off. "You're the man behind the desk."

Harry's eyes widen as he looks from the girl that Louis is taking the bracelet off of and the girl that just spoke to him. The twins from his old job, he remembers.

"Don't be rude, Phoebe." Louis' mother berates. "Introduce yourself properly."

Each one of Louis' siblings take his hand and explain how old they are, except for the youngest twins that just clutch his fingers and babble unintelligibly. Harry feels like they're all staring at him, assessing him, but they're still kind and loving. Fizzy claims that she needs to find a place for everyone to rest later on and Jay takes his hand and leads him towards the kitchen.

Harry stumbles after her, offering to get some tea while she sits on one of the open seats at the counter. She turns to face him when he gives her a cup of tea and looks him over, from his stitched rest to the sweat that lines his forward, warmly.

"I was close with your mother," she explains. "I knew her in school, and we used to joke that one day our children would be mated together. When she had Gemma and I had Louis, I almost thought that it could happen. I never thought to take you into account."

"We're not mates," Harry explains.

"Of course," Jay concedes and takes a delicate sip of tea. A man with a silencer and a massive gashon his face  sits in the chair beside her and lays his head on the table dramatically. "He was mated with that Liam fellow."

Harry nods and turns to look out of the threshold, staring at where Louis is now working to take the bracelets off of another family. Harry smiles when Louis glances up for a second and makes eye contact with him and tilts his head upward in greeting.

"Did you ever meet Liam?" Harry asks.

"Once, but Louis didn't look at him like how he looks at you."

Harry flushes and turns back towards Jay, "You've raised a lot of beautiful children."

"Thank you," she smiles humbly. "And your mother has done lovely with you and Gemma. I wish that she was here so I could tell her that."

Harry puts his hand in his pocket to feel over the collapsed hoverboard and the paper of the unsent letter to his mother.

"Me too," he whispers.

//

"How far away are we?" Harry asks over the din of the motor.

"Close," Louis murmurs. "If the coordinates Paul gave me are right then we should be there in a few minutes."

"Can someone please explain to me why Paul sent us to get the supplies?" Zayn asks from the pilot's seat. "Couldn't he leave his private craft filled with all of the luxuries and grab the weapons himself?"

"He's sending us because there are only a few of us that actually know how to drive a craft, and everyone else is already taking the other crafts filled with everyone else. Also, I am supposed to pick up some new weapons to test for future battles, so. We're the only ones that Paul could've sent."

Zayn sighs and messes with the controls of the hovercraft, "The scanner detects a building 400 meters away. Do you think that's the place?"

Louis nods and stretches in his seat. Harry leans forward to look at the projected map of the entire landscape beneath them. The place where they're supposed to pick up food is miles away from any other traces of civilization, and it all appears to be a one-story warehouse sort of building.

"Is Paul like, your leader?" Harry asks.

"Of sorts. He's the last of our Elders that is completely sane, and he's a bit of a prat. But he means well." Louis explains as the hovercraft dips downwards. "This mission should be quick enough, H. Do you want to just sit in here and wait for us?"

Harry looks out the window at the dark expanse of night that lies for kilometers around them, "I'd rather come with you two, if that's alright?"

Louis nods and Harry stares at him in the blue glow of the hovercraft, taking in his profile that looks like it was sculpted by some out-worldly being and the way that he is working his thin bottom lip between his teeth anxiously.

"Okay, Lou, let's land this craft and finish up as quickly as possible." Zayn says.

Five minutes later and they're all holding massive boxes against their chest while making their way towards the exit. The building apparently doesn't have any lights and Harry feels exhaustion seeping through his bones. They all haven't slept since the other night after Louis finished taking everyone's bracelets off except for his own. The presence of the metal still on Louis' wrist makes him nervous, but Louis has his tools stowed protectively in the waistband of his trousers and he told Harry that he plans to take it off once they all finally pick up the supplies and he has more thread for stitches.

"Did you hear that?" Zayn projects after a crashing sound reverberates from across the room.

"It was probably just an animal that came in through the open door," Louis explains and keeps walking.

Harry stops when he hears something that sounds like footsteps coming close to them, and he opens his mouth to say something to them but is cut off by a hand covering his mouth and an injector seeping into the skin of his forehead.

. . .

"No," Harry wheezes as soon as he awakes and tries to sit up, only to be stopped by restraints strapped around his chest. "No."

He turns his head to the side to look and feels relief pool through his veins when he catches the familiar sight of Louis' messy fringe. He looks at his other side and sees Zayn, who's visibly unconscious and scarily pale. He struggles against the restraints, forcing himself to try and calm down his rash breathing.

"Lou?" Harry asks. "Louis are you awake?"

"They won't be awake for a while, Harry." an oddly familiar voice comes from somewhere else in the room. "And they couldn't save you, anyway."

"Who are you?" he asks.

"You don't remember me?" the voice that's distinctly male echoes. "Perhaps someone else does."

The restraints detach from his chest and Harry immediately sits up and takes in his surroundings. The room is completely empty besides him and the other two, and it's bathed in white. How did The Movement find us? He notices a massive speaker in the corner of the room and a wall made entirely of an oversized mirror.

"Who are you?" Harry repeats uselessly.

"At one point," the voice lilts. "I was your everything."

Harry swings his legs off of the bed and stands over Louis' bed and vainly shakes his shoulders, trying to wake him.

"It's no use, Chick." Harry pauses when he hears the nickname and stares at the mirror. "Oh, are you starting to remember?"

Harry walks slowly towards the mirror, taking in his own reflection. His hair is much longer than the last time he saw himself, and his mouth is bitten red from the kisses that Louis has pressed to his mouth before they left the hovercraft. He raises his hand to press against the mirror and mutters in disbelief.

"Dad?"

The mirror shifts into a sort of two-way glass, and then Harry is staring directly into a pair of green eyes that don't hold any sort of vibrancy in them, at all.

"Hello, Harry." his father says, and Harry feels like his entire world shifts and spirals into one of total chaos with two words and a smarmy smile.

Harry looks away from the man that looks like a ghost of the memories of his father to see Simon, and another man standing behind him. They're all staring at him curiously, and Harry just feels confused.

"What's happening?" he asks, but he's ignored.

A door opens and several Superiors come in and grab him by the arms, he starts to scream when he notices a woman holding a silencer nearing Louis, and he almost doesn't even notice when a burly man comes towards him with a clenched fist until he is being punched in the stomach ruthlessly.

"Louis?" Harry yells as he's being pushed through a narrow doorway. "Lou? Zayn?"

He doesn't stop yelling until a person is clutching a hand over his mouth and another person punches him in the tender part of his ribs once more. His vision swims from exhaustion and pain but he feels a glimmer of hope when he hears the familiar sound of Louis cursing out someone else viciously. They throw Harry into a different room and soon after Louis and Zayn are wheeled in there, too. Harry takes no time to take off their restraints and ignores the sound of someone laughing behind him.

"What's the use of untying them?" someone asks. "They won't escape."

"What's the use of you not shutting the fuck up?" Harry snaps.

Louis is slightly awake and has a bruise forming on his left cheek, Harry slides his hand across his face gingerly, making eye contact before moving to Zayn's bed.

"Paul?" Louis asks, his voice breaking. "What is this?"

Harry ceases from where he's taking off a restraint from Zayn's frail wrist to glance at Louis, who is standing shakily with his face a perfect picture of confusion.

"You pride yourself on being smart," Paul says. "Figure it out."

"I.." Louis' voice tampers out uselessly.

Harry looks from his father, to Paul, to Simon.

"It was a trap," Harry says.

Louis turns to look at him, "What?"

"The Movement trapped us using Paul."

"No," Louis refutes. "No, that can't. Paul is an Unconformist."

Harry turns back to Zayn, taking off the last of his restraints. He feels his head pounding as it all comes together, as every single seemingly puzzle piece comes into place.

"But what is an Unconformist, really?" Harry whispers. "What if.. What if I was right? What if they are bad?"

"No, the Unconformists stand for everything that The Movement isn't."

"Who would've thought," Simon interrupts them. "That poor, idiotic Harry would figure everything out before Louis?"

"No," Louis shakes his head. "No. Paul, what's happening? Why aren't you fighting him? Why did you send us here?"

"Oh, Louis," Paul murmurs. "You're much too noble for your own good. You see our actions and you define it as fighting for justice, when, in reality, the Unconformists were just formed to keep control on the Civilians."

"That doesn't make sense," Louis whispers.

"Every single government before us has made a horrendous mistake: they failed to preserve unity between everyone that is under the government's control. And, yes, while taking away words is a good first step into having a docile nation, there was still more to be done to promote peace and cut down on violence." Simon explains.

"The best way to unite people together is to make them fight against a certain cause. It's basic psychology, really. If everyone hates one group, then they won't turn on themselves. Which is why, leading members of The Movement formed the Unconformists. This way, everyone will have a cause and be unified. But, once the Rebels began to have children and lost sight of who they really are -- a branch of The Movement -- we had to take affirmative action to remind them that they are beneath The Movement. We had our own specialized breed of genetically superior children to keep the government intact once everyone is gone, but the grooming process has failed and the system has gone haywire. We have to remind the Unconformists that there is nothing to fight other than themselves. And Paul and I have decided that the best example of how merciless you all are to The Movement is through you."

"I don't understand," Louis echoes.

Harry feels his heart race in his chest. All of his heartache, all of these deaths, all of everything is just because The Movement has been manipulating everyone. He feels angry and terrified all at once.

"Why us?" Harry whispers.

"Because we have allowed both sides to put you on too high of a pedestal. You've became leaders of something that isn't born of either The Movement's or Unconformist plans, and we are fearful of what you all are capable of together. You're too powerful, and that can't happen. We have to preserve the peace and unity that is prevalent through the nations." Paul explains easily. "And, using new technology supplied by Louis, we have formulated a way to copy your genetics for future generations to lead the nation, and we have calculated a way to groom them into never being as reckless as you three. The Movement is all-powerful, but we will not even take the chance of having individuals like you threaten our stability. Soon, the Unconformists will be landing into the trap that we've planned for them and will be shown the video of your deaths, and they will be given the choice to either join The Movement or die."

"You bastards," Louis spits. "You fucking arseholes. I believed you Paul, I fought for you."

"Quite frankly," Paul walks closer to Louis. "I have never cared for you. I'm going to enjoy watching you die."

"Which, reminds me." Simon fills in the silence after Paul's declaration. "I have to show you something. Mr. Styles, please awake Mr. Malik."

Harry watches as his own father, who is skinny and looks like a hollow version of a man, walks towards Zayn and presses an injector into his arm.

Zayn's eyes open in alarm, and he grips Harry's dad's arm and pulls like he's trying to dislocate it, but he's much too weak. His father easily shakes him off and walks back to Paul and Simon.

"Can one of the Superiors show us the film of the Silenced Room?"

"You see," Simon begins. "The Movement has always had a penchant for the quiet. And we have came across a room that has the lowest possible acoustics known to man, and it has been ironically dubbed as 'Deathly Silent.'"

"When someone is in the room for over an hour, they become mentally insane. It is so quiet that it's unnerving. There is only one other object in the room with the person that enters: a knife. The person has to suffer through the silence until they drive themselves insane enough that killing themselves with a knife becomes the only logical action."

"Earlier today," Paul cuts in. "We had Des, here, use his voice to lure someone into the room. She killed herself within a matter of minutes."

"No," Harry says as soon as the projected image shows his Mother following his father into a white room. He turns to Simon and away from the film. "I am not watching my mother kill herself."

Simon says nothing, but he smiles.

He fucking smiles. And Harry. Harry has been kicked, he's been tortured, he's been brainwashed, he's been starved, he's been turned into a monster, but he will not be fucking smiled at by Simon anymore. He will not stand idly by while Simon takes everything that matters to him and strips him of his own self. He makes to move towards Simon, but he's stopped by hands grabbing his arms.

"Harry, don't." Louis murmurs into his ear. "Please."

And that's all Harry remembers before his mind carefully blacks out.

//

Harry is being propped against the wall of a room, staring at a door as Simon and Paul talk amongst themselves quietly. Louis is pressing him against his side and Zayn looks like he's about to cry.

"We go in together," Louis murmurs quietly. "Maybe if we enter together then we can talk to each other and their plan won't work."

"No, we'll starve," Zayn refutes. "They don't need us anymore. They'll keep us in there until we die."

"There's only one floor," Harry whispers. "If we can make it to a window then we can make a break for it."

"Impossible. Simon and Paul have a million Superiors here and there's no way that we can all escape."

"Not if one of us makes a scene," Zayn points out. "If one of us do something then the other two can leave."

"I'll do it," Louis says. "I'll make a scene, and you two run."

"No," Harry nearly yells. "If you're dying, I'm dying, too. I have nothing to live for if you're not here."

"Harry.." Louis shakes his head.

"I'm not letting you die, Lou. I'm serious. You're the only one that can get back to everyone and help them save themselves before The Movement kills them." Zayn projects, his eyes look tender as he says it. "Also, I would really miss you."

"I'll do it," Harry offers. "I deserve it."

"No," Louis shakes his head. "I'm not letting either of you die. I refuse."

"So we're all going in together, then?" Harry says.

"No," Zayn steps forward. "We're not. Everyone needs you two to survive, they don't need me. I'll go."

"No," Louis is crying, now. Harry grabs his hand and grasps it tightly to remind him that he's not alone. "You're more than just your power zayn. We're all more than our gene. We just haven't been taught to think like that. You're worth something. You can't leave, you can't."

"We can figure something else out, Zayn," Harry whispers. "We're not leaving you."

"It's not your choice." Zayn mumbles and steps towards them.

Zayn grabs Louis by the shoulders and pulls him into a tight embrace. He whispers something into his shoulder that Harry can't hear and then detaches after kissing his forehead and murmuring that he loves him. Louis chokes out a small sob and Harry feels like his heart is threatening to explode. Zayn moves towards Harry and pulls him into a hug, too. Harry returns the hug, giving into the foreign feeling of having someone other than Louis pressed against him, clutching tightly.

"What's happening?" Harry asks.

"Take care of him, Harry. Please."

"I.." Harry's voice catches in his throat and he tries not to cry.

The next few seconds happen in a blur, one moment he's looking at Louis in confusion when he notices that his hands are held behind his back, and then the next Zayn is running towards Simon and Paul and punching one of them in the stomach and Paul is holding a gun to his head, and then the next Louis is grabbing Harry and leading him towards the door.

"You're bleeding," Harry yells at Louis, looking at his wrist. Harry watches as Superiors sprint down the opposite end of the hallway with their guns pointed towards them. An anguished cry that sounds like Zayn's comes from the room. And then he notices Louis' bracelet.

He watches as Louis presses the lever and throws it into the room, and he begins to run. He remembers how massive the explosion was when he tested it, and he knows that they're not a safe distance from it. He stops when he notices that Louis isn't beside him and turns. Louis looks void, like he is empty, with a certain hollow sadness in his eyes and tears running openly down his cheeks.

"Louis," Harry yells. "You have to run.  _ Louis _ ."

He grabs Louis' hand and yanks him forward, forcing him to run alongside him towards the end of the hallway. He opens up a window and pushes Louis through it. One look behind him makes him realize that Superiors are right behind him. He looks around uselessly; he has no idea how to run away, and Louis isn't any help in his state.

"What do I do?" Harry whispers to himself uselessly. "What in the fuck do I.." he looks at Louis, who is slowly curling in on himself. "do?"

He shoves his hand in his back pocket and feels relieved to when his fingers scrape over the metallic edge of the collapsed hoverboard. He removes it from his pocket and presses down, making the board open before grabbing Louis and jumping onto it. He presses his foot to the button in the middle of it and leans to drive the board forward.

They're already in the sky when the explosion bursts through the walls of the building, illuminating the night sky with a red glow. The sight makes Louis clutch to him, and Harry has never seen him so delicate like this.

_ "Zayn!" _ Louis screams around a sob, and Harry has to clutch him to his chest from fear that he'll fall off of the board.

"Zayn's dead," Harry whispers. "I'm so, so sorry."


	25. Chapter 25

The early morning sun paints the sky with hues of demanding fuchsias and muted azures, and the angry wind tosses Harry's hair away from his forehead and dries his tears in place on his red cheeks. The board dips slightly in the air when he shifts forward and he uses one of his hands to hold onto the edge while he drives the board higher towards the rising sun. Louis' shaking hands tighten around his waist and Harry uses his free hand to grasp where they're conjoined tightly. He only has the fabric of Harry's shirt to try and stop his wrist from bleeding, but he doesn't complain. The sound of dried leaves being tossed by the wind is the only sensation that mingles with the small hitches of Louis' breath while he cries, and Harry feels like his heart is breaking relentlessly for him.

"Lou?" Harry asks delicately, his voice is raw from not being used for so many hours. "We're almost to the crafts."

Louis inhales shakily from where his face is pressed against Harry's neck, and Harry feels a tear bleed through the thin fabric of his shirt. Harry wants nothing more than to give Louis a proper hug and tell him that everything's okay, but he can't. He can't promise that everything is okay if he doesn't even know if that statement is true to himself, and he can't hug Louis because driving a hoverboard with one person takes enough concentration as it is, but the presence of Louis' weight added to his own makes it even more difficult.

"Right," Louis coughs and moves a bit away from where he was pressed against Harry. "I should clean myself up.. I should.."

"Lou, it's okay for them to know that you're upset."

"No," Louis bites, his voice dredged in an odd mixture of sadness and ferocity. "It's not. I am about to go in front of hundreds of people that I have came to see as family and ruin their perception of this world. I am going to have to walk up to Zayn's mum and tell her that her son is dead because of this selfish world. I can't go out there with tears in my eyes when I'm the only one that's supposed to take control and be a leader. I can't."

"Then don't go," Harry says simply.

"I'm not leaving my family to fall into The Movement's trap."

Louis tries to take his hand away from where they were conjoined, but Harry just holds on tighter. I'm not letting you go, not when you're about to break. He wishes with every fiber of his being that he can stop the board and look into Louis' azure eyes that match the sunrise, to tell him through silent touches and meaningful glances that everything will be alright, but they don't have any time to waste.

"You shouldn't go, not when you're about to fall apart. I'll tell them." Harry offers.

Louis' hand ceases from where he was struggling, "They won't believe you, Haz. In nearly everyone's mind you're just a Loyalist that had no other choice than to run away with me."

"I'll make them believe," Harry argues. "I have a gift, Louis. And I know that no one ever looks at me and wants to think that I'm a leader, but that's what I was born to be. I have my voice and I have Gemma's namesake on my side, and I believe that they'll listen to me if I just took the chance. I'm an Unconformist now, and I fucking care about these people. I never thought that I would say that but I do. I care about you, and Cara, and Ember, and your family, and everyone else because they matter to you. And I know how much you loved Zayn, I know how much this hurts. Let yourself mourn and let me help."

"You're serious, aren't you?" Louis asks, and he just sounds so broken, is the thing.

"I am." Harry runs his forefinger over Louis' hands lightly. "Listen, Zayn was amazing. He cared for you so much and he helped me through so much shit and he was just an amazing person. And I hate that he's dead, I wish I could change it, Lou, I do. But I know that you're hurting more than I am. And I'm so sorry that you lost him. I'm so sorry."

"I see the hovercrafts," Louis interjects, his voice thinly masking the tears that are threatening to fall once more. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I am," Harry says, his voice is dry and he doesn't know if he should be upset that Louis brushed off what he said or not.

"Okay," Louis moves his injured wrist away from Harry's waist gingerly, hissing when the cut is exposed to the air and Harry can feel when Louis wraps his hand in his own shirt that is basically torn to pieces. "I want you to go to the craft that has a green 'X' on the door and get as close as you can to where I can lean over and knock on it. When someone lets us in I'm going to have to jump first because i only have one hand, and then you can bring your board inside. I'm going to go to the bathroom and stitch myself up while you explain to everyone that we have to switch our course, tell them that I've sent you and am healing one of my injuries. Mention nothing about Zayn and come to me as soon as you've convinced them to pass along the message and switch the course."

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" Harry asks, crouching slightly to move the hoverboard closer to the craft.

"Yes, I'm sure. I just need to get some stitches and freshen up." Louis says gruffly.

Harry clenches his jaw and maneuvers the board until they're less than a foot away from the hovercraft. Louis uses his good hand to clutch to Harry's shirt like an anchor as he leans over to rap his fingers against the metal of the craft. The wind is even more merciless at this altitude, and Harry watches as Louis flails uselessly to try and maintain his balance, so he grabs Louis' waist and focuses on keeping the hoverboard level. It feels like hours of precarious balancing and Louis stretching to knock against the door until the craft slowly opens.

Behind the door is Cara, of course it's Cara, with her determined eyes and her hair being tossed by the sheer force of the wind that funnels into the craft as soon as the door is opened. She raises one eyebrow in question at their appearances before moving aside. Harry watches anxiously as Louis makes the leap from the board to the craft safely, and then he follows suit, but he turns back at the last second to grab his board. Cara closes the door behind them and Harry collapses his board before putting it back in his pocket.

Harry looks at Louis, truly looks at him for the first time in hours, and he feels his heart shatter. His eyes are a shimmery shade of topaz, glassy from unshed tears, and he has deep circles forming under his eyes. His pink lips are chapped and he has a steady layer of stubble gracing his sharp jawline. His hands are shaking and there's a bit of blood smudged on his forehead from where he was haphazardly adjusting his fringe during the hoverboard ride and he just looks so sad. The corners of his mouth are pulled downwards and his skin is rapidly losing it's tan color, and he looks so delicate and breakable that Harry's heart hurts.

Louis grabs Harry by the collar of his shirt with his blood free hand and forces him closer, and then suddenly they're kissing. The familiar stars form behind his eyelids as he hesitantly kisses Louis back, unsure of the meaning behind the way that Louis is pressing against his mouth with such unadulterated want. Louis detaches, and he still looks like he's moments away from crying, milliseconds away from breaking, but he still forms his lips into a rigid smile.

"You can do it," Louis whispers. "Remember what I told you to do."

And then Louis' walking away, weaving between the people that are slowly awaking from slumber towards the bathroom. Harry turns to be met with Cara staring at him stoically, her lower lip tucked between her teeth like she's holding back a smarmy comment.

"I have to tell everyone something," Harry says.

Cara huffs out a quick laugh, "Good luck with that."

"No," Harry shakes his head, following her as she begins to walk away. "This is serious. I have to tell everyone something now."

"No one trusts you, Harry. It's useless."

Harry fumes, staring at her thin figure as she walks away, and he feels like the last piece of his calm resolve crumbles. He is hurting. He has watched people laugh at him, abuse him, talk down to him, leave him, manipulate him, brainwash him, and act like he is nobody compared to Gemma, and he's sick of it. He is sick of people looking at him with disdain and saying that they never even thought to think that he could become something powerful. He is disgusted with how people stare at him like he's just a replacement for something that has more significance than him. Harry is somebody, he has a voice, and it deserves to be heard.

He scans his eyes across the craft and spots a chair that isn't occupied by any tired Unconformists and cautiously steps on it. A few people around him glance up at him tiredly, confusion etching over their faces, but they disregard him after a moment.

"Excuse me," Harry raises his voice over the din of the craft, but no one looks at him. He closes his eyes and feels anger rush over him in relentless waves. He clears his throat, letting the timbre of his voice dip lower. "Everyone, listen."

And it's a bit scary, the way that everyone's head turns towards to him, eyes glazed but still attentive. It's a bit odd, truly, he forgets that he has this stupid.. gift, and he hasn't really noticed the affects that he could have.

"I'm not Gemma," Harry begins shakily, his confidence quickly diminishing. "I'm not. And I know that that's what everyone is thinking right now, that I'm not the person that you'd rather have speaking to you, and I'm sorry. But I have something that is really important to say, and if everyone doesn't get over their petty opinions about how I am a Loyalist, then we're all going to die."

Harry searches his eyes over the crowd until he sees Cara, who is leaning against the threshold to the small kitchen, mouth turned down into an unamused frown. He stares at her as he tries to formulate what he should say.

"Throughout everyone's lives, we've all had a strict outline of what's bad and good. And while one side might differ on their opinions of which side is actually good, there's always been the general consensus that one side is right and the other is not." Harry swallows over the nerves that is building in his stomach, taking a pause to gain his wits. "And we've always had this.. deep-rooted hatred to the other side. The same hatred that you all feel towards me right now because of how I'm not the person that you want standing in front of you. The same hatred that I felt when I was taught that you all were the reason why Gemma was taken from me in the first place."

"But.. we're wrong. We're all wrong. There isn't two, distinct sides. There isn't a certain reason why my sister is dead and I am still standing. There isn't even such a thing as the Unconformists. The Movement has their own leaders, like Paul, leading us around like idiotic puppets. Paul sent Louis, Zayn, and I on a suicide mission to be punished by The Movement, and the safe place that we are all flying towards is a trap. They're going to take us directly off of the hovercrafts and kill us. We've all been lied to for some sick, confusing meaning that even I don't understand. But I just figured that I would warn you so that you can take control and change the evil course that The Movement has set before us."

"Why should we believe you?" A dark-skinned woman asks from where she's standing just in front of him. "You could be trying to trick us."

"You don't have to believe me." Harry says, stepping down from the chair delicately. "I'm just saying, why are all of the leaders on a separate hovercraft and course than all of us? Why did Paul leave us to starve? Why, instead of running, aren't your leaders giving us weapons to fight back."

Harry exhales and feels like the weight of a planet has been lifted from his chest. He doesn't know if anyone believes him, or if he's going to save these people that his sister loved enough to risk her life for, but he does know that Louis needs him. He weaves between people until he reaches the bathroom. He knocks his hand against metal door to the loos and it swings open immediately. Louis' shaking hand grabs his shirt and pulls him inside the small room before closing the door behind him.

"I met him at school," Louis exhales in a rush. "I had just gotten into a fight with this massive fucking kid that told me I wasn't smart, and my nose was bleeding. He offered me a tissue and used all of his words to tell me that 'mean people aren't fun.' We were close ever since then."

Harry exhales, staring at Louis, who has his eyes shut like he's trying to hold back his tears and his wrist stitched up sloppily. He slowly reaches out his hand to grasp his shaking shoulders, but he doesn't say anything.

"My dad, when he was still around, told us about these people called superheroes. He would tie towels around our shoulders like capes and let Zayn and I run around our small flat, and one time Zayn fell down and hit his head on the edge of our coffee table when I chased him. I cried because I thought that I had hurt him and he just laughed and told me that the scar would just make for a cool story when he's older."

Louis barks out a dry laugh around the tears that are slowly flowing down his cheeks, "He was my first kiss. We were only twelve and I was upset because the boy that I had a crush on probably would never like me back and he kissed me and told me that whoever chose to not love me was a bloody idiot. We never kissed again, or even talked about it, but it means something to me, even if it wasn't romantic at all."

Louis crumbles, that's the only way to describe it. He hunches in on himself and falls against Harry's chest, shaking with the force of the sobs that rip through his throat, hand clutching the absolutely botched fabric of Harry's shirt as he cries. Harry pulls him closer, rubbing across the broad muscles of Louis' back as he presses tears against where Harry's heart is breaking for him.

"He was my best friend. Every era of my life has been marked in something that has to do with Zayn. He was always there for me, always at my side when I wanted to cause mischief and he held me when we were both gutted over Gemma. He was the one that told me to not run from what I felt for you and go with it. I never thought about how much he meant to me, how much I needed him by my side at every single waking moment until now. He was this goofy, smiling dork that I loved so much and now he's gone. He died for me. He died for us."

Harry presses his mouth against the crown of his head, "I'm so sorry, Lou."

"I'm going to miss him so much," Louis murmurs, voice wavering like a wilting flower. "I didn't want him to die."

"I know, Lou, I know."

//

"We've changed course," Cara tells him hours later, when the night has taken over sky that they're hurling through at supersonic speed. "What's up with him?"

Harry looks down at Louis, who is lying with his head resting in Harry's lap. He has changed clothes, they both have, into some ill-fitting kits that a woman was kind enough to loan to them, but he still looks like he's in painful need of a proper shower. Louis fell asleep against Harry about thirty minutes ago, once they have moved from the loos and to the floor of the hovercraft. Ember had just finished shoving food down Harry's throat before Cara paced over and sat beside him.

"Long day," Harry answers vaguely. "What made you all change your mind?"

"You did. You might be a Loyalist, and your speech might have been confusing, but, for some reason, Louis trusts you. So we should trust you, too." Cara exhales. "Besides, I doubt that you would have the balls to send over a hundred people to die out of purely evil reasons, so. I convinced the captains to go as far East as we can."

"Thank you."

"You know," Cara murmurs. "Gemma was right."

Harry looks over at the girl, who has her hair pulled back tightly and he's pretty sure has never even seen smile properly, and assesses her. She looks tired, with deep circles forming under her eyes and the movements of her eyelids fluttering slowly with each blink, like she's forcing herself to stay awake. But she's still magnetic, with a certain brand of anger and ferocity that Harry himself can never hold onto for a long period of time.

"What was she right about?"

"She told me that you let everyone else's thoughts of you consume you until you wouldn't believe in yourself. She said you took everything to heart and that's why she wanted to protect you from the people that she was surrounded with. We're much too blunt and easily angered for a pure soul like your's. You're more than Louis' pet and everyone's last resort. You're a human with a valid opinion and today was the first time that I have seen you act like it."

"I used to be that way. And maybe I still am. But that doesn't mean that I can change, or that I haven't changed. Hardly anyone has taken the time to see me for who I am, besides Louis and a few others. I'm not Gemma's brother, I'm Harry, and it sucks that everyone is so disgusted with my presence."

"I'm not disgusted with you," Cara denies. "I think I just don't like you because you have her eyes."

Harry rests his hand in Louis' hair, rubbing nonsensical circles in the brown fringe as he sleeps against his thigh, totally oblivious to what's happening around him. "That doesn't make sense."

"I told you I loved her," Cara says bluntly. "And I did. I was so sure that she was my mate, that we were destined to spend our lives together. She brought a gentle sort of light to my darkness and I loved it. I loved looking at her eyes and not having to hide behind my carefully constructed walls. She was everything innocent and hopeful in life, and I couldn't get enough of it."

"And then I killed her." Harry finishes bluntly.

"Not before she broke my heart," Cara sighs. "The Movement mated her with some arsehole Loyalist named Benny, and she broke up with me because she wanted to give him a chance. It hurt like fuck and I was so mad at her. I was waiting in our normal spot in the Outlands, under this huge tree, ready to yell at her for hurting me when I learned that she was missing. I think I can't stand you because you remind me of when I was happiest, and it's like losing her all over again."

"I didn’t know she had been mated yet. I'm sorry," Harry whispers.

"Here's a key piece of advice, Harry." Cara rises to her feet, looking down at him with her eyes shining even through the darkness of the craft. "It's a waste to apologize for things that you can't change. It has already happened and there's no possible way to erase the doings of fate. The only thing that you can do is be there for someone, and it's too late for someone to be there for me. Focus on the boy in your lap, instead."

Harry glances down at Louis, who is still fast asleep on his lap. His eyelashes are fanning against his cheekbones delicately and his thin mouth has taken on the dreary shape of a frown even while he's unconscious. Harry runs a gentle finger over the arched curve of his eyebrow, feeling the small scar that's there from a game of hoverboard chicken with Zayn that happened years ago. Louis looks so gentle, like the last delicate flower that still stands in the middle of a cold winter, even in his sleep. Tears from earlier are drying on his cheekbones and Harry takes the moment of being alone to finally let himself feel upset about Zayn.

Zayn was like a rare spot of sunshine in the middle of a hurricane, he was calm and bright and resilient enough to shine even through the darkest hours. He is the reason why Harry is even alive. Without Zayn he would've went through his plans and killed himself months ago, and without Zayn he would've died before he even had the chance to see what this thing that he feels for Louis is even about. Zayn cared for him, even when he didn't have to, and now he's gone.

Harry would've never thought that he would care for the same boy that sat beside him at that awful job and would cheat the system with his old scribe and knack of using more than four words, but he does. Zayn has taken so much hatred, has been beaten down but still took the time to care for the ones he loved, and now he's dead. And it's not fair. It's not fair for Zayn to have left them just to make Harry and Louis feel safe. There shouldn't have been a choice.

And that's what it all narrows down to, isn't it? The fact that they exist in such a vile universe where the concept of death is so immense and inescapable, that lives are dangled around like bloody useless toys just for the namesake of a lesson. The Movement is a plague, infecting everyone until there's no certain method of escape, killing everyone just to prove a point. The Movement was supposed to be a welcome beacon of safety after an era filled with darkness. But, the ironic truth is, the pure, progressive future that The Movement was supposed to create is actually more efficiently grotesque than the Dark Ages before its existence.

If Simon wasn't already dead, Harry would kill him again. He's the reason why they have been dragged in this mess. He's the one that has crafted this sick system of death and manipulation just so that he can maintain power. He's the one that has pitted people against each other when, really, they should have been fighting Simon and all of his blind associates.

"H?" Louis' soft, drowsy voice breaks his mind from its inner tangent. Harry looks down at him, breath hitching at the sight of Louis' eyes that are reminiscent of glazed stars and the way that his tongue darts out and skims over the blushed pink of his thin lower lip. "Why're you awake?"

"I don't know," Harry answers honestly, gently running his thumb over Louis' prominent cheekbone. "You should go back to sleep."

"So should you," Louis murmurs, moving off of his lap to lay on his side, pressing his cheek against the cold floor of the craft. He keeps one, tired eye open, trained on Harry as he reaches out his hand towards him. "Come on, lay with me, forget about the world for a while."

Harry nods before moving away from the wall and lying down on his side, too. He presses his back against the solid expanse of Louis' chest, hitching his breath when Louis lays a lethargic arm around his waist. He closes his eyes when he feels Louis press his face against the back of his neck, taking the time to match the pace of his breathing to Louis' tired inhalations. There's a few moments of precarious silence before Louis starts to cry quietly. Harry can't help but to join him, giving into the ebbs of sadness over a fallen friend until he falls into a fitful sleep.

//

Harry wakes up hours later alone and cold.

He props himself up on his hand, blinking blearily as he registers his surroundings. He sees Cara staring broodingly at an old scribe, and Ember handing an injector to a small girl that's coughing. Several people are pacing around hurriedly and it makes him feel a bit nervous. He turns his head and spots Louis, who is embracing a woman with dark skin and long, black hair. Another girl is staring at the two of them, eyes wide and mouth agape. Harry can tell from the unearthly beauty of the women that they have to be Zayn's relatives. His tired mind makes the connection between the sad faces and how Louis' hands are trembling to realize that he's telling them about how Zayn's dead.

And then it hits him, the familiar punch that he had to endure for months after Gemma was taken from him. Losing someone close to him is like an injury, really. He wakes up, and everything is okay. He actually is enveloped in this glorious façade of serenity for a few fleeting moments before he tries to move and then he's hit with the knowledge that not everything is normal. An integral piece of him is suddenly gone from his routine, but instead of an injury that might be healed, the hole is a human life that has ceased to exist. And the realization happening again is almost like witnessing Zayn die once more.

Harry stands up, walking towards Cara languidly, sleep still heavy in his bones. She looks up from her scribe to spare him a nod in greeting when he stops in front of her, and he's pressed with nervousness on what he should say or not.

"There's something wrong, isn't there?" Harry asks.

Cara raises an eyebrow at him, "And what makes you think that?"

"I have a gut feeling and you look pissed off." Harry shrugs. "Also the people running around isn't much of a help, either."

"Our fuel lines are failing. Every single craft. We have to do a crash landing at the safest possible location in the next few hundred kilometers." Cara sighs, closing her eyes tiredly. "If your theory yesterday was right, it seems like we have an informant in the mix. They're pissed off that we're not going to the 'safe space' so they're forcing us to land."

"Fuck."

"Precisely," Cara starts to walk towards the cockpit, and she signals for Harry to follow her. "I am trying to figure out who this informant is while finding a suitable place for us to land, and quite frankly I'm stressed out. This usually falls under Louis or Paul's expertise, but Paul is obviously not an option, and Louis is emotionally incapacitated."

"How would you know.. about Louis?"

"Harry, if there's one thing that I know about Louis Tomlinson, then it's that he will take most of the damage during a shit storm before he lets anyone else. He's a compulsive protector, and he would be an unstoppable force if he was even halfway in his right mind. It doesn't take much wit to realize that he's upset and Zayn's unprecedented absence is a part of it. Something bad has happened, but no one is questioning it because we're too busy having our lives ruined."

Cara steps into the cockpit and pivots on her foot, leaning against the frame of the threshold with her thin mouth pursed and a strand of hair resting messily over her forehead. Her dark eyes scrutinize him for a moment before she looks away.

"If I were you, I'd find a place where you can sit tight. We're crash landing soon." She turns around and presses her hand against the second door to the cockpit.

"Wait, Cara," Harry says awkwardly. "Do you want to.. talk? About things?"

"If you're offering to have a chat with me about my feelings, then you're clearly insane." She opens the door and takes a step inside, but she hovers there before turning back to Harry. "But, maybe. One day. I'm a busy woman, you know."

Harry lets himself smile, "I know."

...

The crash landing wasn't as awful as he thought it would be.

A collected voice booms over the intercom in a few minutes, telling everyone to settle in a secure position and brace for impact. Louis had detached from Zayn's family with tearful eyes before pressing himself against Harry's side. He had to quietly explain to Louis about what was happening, and then they were dipping in the sky and pressing forward against their seat belts as the hovercraft slid against the rough turf of the land.

"Alright, everyone." Cara says as she comes out of the cockpit. "Gather your belongings and as much food as you can. We are in a vulnerable area and have to run until we are in The Movement's blind spot. We have no idea what kind of machinery they have on their side, and we want to have ourselves in the safest position possible."

"I should be up there," Louis murmurs to Harry as they shoulder through people to grab as much hydration packs as they can hold. "I should be doing something."

"You are your first priority, Lou. The only people you should worry about guiding right now is your family." Harry argues and grabs an apple. "Everyone is as equally as confused as the next. The only thing we can do is band together and tough it out. Do you see your Mum anywhere?"

Louis nods and stands higher on his toes, gazing at the expanse of people that are filtering hurriedly out of the crafts. He points at where Harry can see the older twins grasping to his sister's hands and begins to walk towards them. Everyone is jostling against one another in a mad rush that leads to no destination. A woman elbows Harry in the stomach as he reaches down to grab Louis' hand. They reach his family and Louis leans down to grab one of the youngest twins, and Harry follows suit. They begin to run with the masses of people, and the only sounds that can be heard over the sounds of feet hitting the uneven field that they've landed in is the grumpy cries of children.

Harry can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears when a dark shadow starts to encompass them overhead. He glances up to see the bottom of a white hovercraft when Louis stops running beside him.

"They've found us."

 

//

Water falls against the bruised bridge of his nose, throwing him out of his slumber in the matter of a few seconds.

Reaching his hand out blindly beside him, Harry feels nothing but cold cement around the thin cot that he has been laid on. He blinks his eyes lazily, ridding the phosphenes from his line of vision before slowly sitting up, grimacing through the resultant pain that bursts through his ribcage. He's alone in a small, dismally grey room. There's a leak in the ceiling, steadily dropping water onto his tattered clothes, and a single window nestled in the corner of the minuscule room. Harry rises to his feet shakily, pressing his palms against the rough walls for support before shuffling towards the window. There isn't any trace of glass nestled in the windowpane, nor is there any sort of curtain strewn over it, either. He rubs his eyes, taking one last glance around the empty, dark room, before sticking his head outside of the window.

The inordinate amount of dirt is the first thing that Harry notices, and then he realizes that there are several other, windowless buildings on the road opposite of him. A few sparse, sickly looking trees are nestled between the crumbling buildings, and there are people walking around on the street, talking freely. None of them are wearing bracelets. A small, blonde girl stops from where she was sprinting down the dirt path to look directly up at him, eyes narrowing at the sight. Harry moves away from the window and leans against the wall, chest heaving and a nervous sweat trickling down his forehead. Is he in the Outlands? Is this a trap? Voices carry through the open window and the sunlight shines a single ray into the dark room. Harry slowly slides down the wall, cement scratching the scarred skin of his back painfully, before curling in on himself.

He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, thumping at a spine-shuddering staccato, as he tries to force himself to breathe. He stares at his dark jeans that have been torn at the knees, and he waits. He waits for the door to open, and for Simon to come in and start to yell at him. He waits for the building to crumble, and for his body to be forever lost in the grey, unreliable rubble. He waits, with anxiety flooding over him in unforgiving waves and sobs ripping from his throat because he knows, he knows that something awful is about to happen. He can feel it.

He's about to move from where he was sitting, body collapsed on itself like a fallen star, to lie down on the floor so that he could cry until his entire chest felt like a black hole, so filled with this depressed force that nothing, not even light, could ever escape from him; and then the door opens in a fit of forceful groans from the rusted hinges that makes him startle. Harry inhales shakily against his knees, mustering every sheer inch of power to look ahead, and then feels all of the air that he has kept expanding in his lungs release in one forceful gasp of suppressed air.

"Niall," he says, voice trembling with tears and heart soaring. He still can't breathe, still has bleary eyesight, but Niall and his massive smile that could rival the sun and his messy brown hair is coming closer to him, leaning down to gather him into a warm hug. "Niall."

"You look like a proper mess, lad," Niall says, voice warm like a heated blanket and bathed in a tinkling laugh, "what's wrong?"

"I-" Harry gasps for air, pressing his nose against Niall's shirt. He thinks that this is the first time that he hasn't seen him completely dressed in white. "I don't know, I'm just scared."

Niall detaches from the hug, moving to sit beside Harry, his skinny thigh brushing against him barely. The annoying, dripping sound is still echoing throughout the dreary room, and Harry vainly tries to match his breathing to Niall's while his heartbeat slowly begins to subside. The explosive clashes of dying stars slowly starts to fade into nothing but a few, flickering embers, and Niall hums a slightly familiar rhythm under his breath. It's not until what feels like hours later until Niall turns towards him and tucks his lips into a soft smile.

"Why're you scared?" Niall asks gently.

"I don't know," Harry shakily brings his hand up to his face, wiping away the tears that are falling sloppily over his cheeks vainly. "I mean, shouldn't I be? The Movement has captured us, and they're going to kill us all. I-I don't even know where Lou is, what if they're killing him right now?"

"Harry," Niall says around a small laugh, "Louis is fine. Everyone is fine. They're probably just now waking up like you."

"But, the gas. I remember watching the grenades fall from the hovercrafts and the gas making everyone scream. Those were The Movement's hovercrafts, they captured us because we had nowhere else to run." Harry fists his hands through his matted hair, mind racing with questions and eyes burning from a new onslaught of tears. "Where's Louis? I can't lose him; I can't lose him, too."

"Harry," Niall clutches his hands against his shaking shoulders. "I promise that Louis is fine. The Movement didn't take you, and no one has been hurt. The gas was just something to make everyone unconscious for a few days while you all were transported. Please, stop wheezing like that. Breathe with me, yeah?"

Harry looks at Niall, with his worried blue eyes that have a stray strand of brown hair falling against his brow and his mouth moving as he exaggerates every inhale and exhale that he takes, and focuses on making himself breathe. Harry can't explain why he feels this way, like he's lost and quickly slipping away from any trace of sanity, he's just terrified and wholeheartedly confused.

"The Movement did not capture you, you are safe."

"Where are we?" Harry asks, voice shaking as he slowly regains his wits.

"We're in the promised land," Niall says, leaning back and letting his mouth slip into another one of his trademark smiles.

"So.. the Outlands?"

"No," Niall drops his hands from Harry's shoulders. "The Outlands and the Movement is far from here, we're on a different continent entirely, away from oppressive governments and corruption. You're safe here, no one wants to hurt you."

"But there is no other civilization outside of The Movement's continent," Harry says, "and, even if we were in a different place, why would they have a Movement hovercraft and make everyone go unconscious? Why did they take us to this desolate place?"

Niall holds up his hand and fishes around in his pocket, bringing out a blaring piece of tech and projecting hologram message, "Actually, can I explain this to you later? It seems that Louis is awake and is refusing to cooperate unless he speaks to you."

Harry nods, and Niall helps him stand on his feet shakily. The hallway outside of his small room is just as dark and depressing as the place that he woke up in, and he has to squint through the darkness until Niall leads him to a massive sliding door that is the exit of the entire building. The streets are still alive with people in tattered clothing walking between the buildings and the breeze sifting through the frail leaves on the trees that Harry has never even seen before. Niall is mumbling to himself about something indiscernible and the sun is beating down on Harry's pale skin unforgivingly. Niall takes a turn down a narrow alleyway, and Harry huffs out an exhausted breath as he stares up at the sweltering sun, taking in the lines that have clothes pinned to them between the buildings and the exposed brick walls. He only glances back down when he feels someone pull at the ruined hem of his shirt.

"Mister Harry?" a small voice asks.

He glances down, squinting through the sunlight to make out the same light blonde hair and icy blue eyes that he remembers from months ago. He feels his heart catch in his throat with relief when he notes that there is no longer a bracelet on her pale left wrist.

"Lux?" Harry asks, leaning down to get a proper look at the girl that has grown so much since the last time that he had seen her, back when he worked with Zayn in Movement Headquarters. "Is that you?"

She nods, mouth lifting into a smile that embodies this pure innocence that Harry has found so hard to find during these past few months, "Hi."

"You've grown so much," Harry marvels.

"So have you," Lux says, "your eyes don't look so sad, anymore. It suits you."

Harry smiles a bit, "Thank you."

"Luxie, we have to go back inside," a lithe woman calls from the street, "come on."

Harry stands up and Lux smiles, pulling on his shirt one last time before running towards her Mum, Harry watches for a moment, confused on why that small instance is what it has taken to put his racing heart at ease, but he doesn't question it. Instead, he follows Niall into another building and shadows his footsteps upwards as they stomp over the dark staircase. They turn into a narrow hallway that is completely absent of any light, and that's when Harry first hears the screams.

He can hardly make out the words, but he can hear the sounds of glass being shattered and the pained groan of a body being thrown against the wall. Harry looks at Niall, pausing in the hallway to raise his eyebrow at him, "I thought you said that they weren't going to hurt us?"

Niall opens his mouth, eyes visibly at a loss, before he begins to say something, but Harry is already pacing towards the source of all of the sounds.

He opens the door and is narrowly missed by a stray lamp, "I told you I'm not going to talk to anyone until I see my family or Harry."

Harry takes in the room, this one is still desolate, but it has two windows, a tattered couch, and, more recently, a few pieces of broken lamp lying beside the entrance. But, in the middle of his own personal tornado, is Louis. With his hair hanging over his eyes and a bruise blossoming over his cheek. He has a steady layer of stubble gracing over his cheeks and a wild ferocity encased in his blue eyes. He looks nearly animalistic, which is a deep contrast to the broken boy that he held against his chest the last time he had seen him.

"Curly?" Louis asks, dropping the vase - how did he even get a vase? Harry only had a cot in his room. - to the ground and taking a step forward. "Is that you?"

Harry nods, "I'm actually a bit offended, your room is way cooler than mine."

Louis grins, and it reminds Harry a lot of the way that the sun rises gloriously, bathed in blinding hues of orange and shining with a ferocious brand of fervor, after a dark night spent alone. He moves forward, and suddenly Louis is everywhere, warm skin pressing against him as they slot together like puzzle pieces, shallow breath hitting Harry's neck, and his soft hair pressing against his jaw. Harry grips to Louis, holding like he's the rope that centers a stray anchor, and presses his mouth to where Louis' hair lies flat over his forehead. He feels the last remnants of the crippling anxiety slowly float away as Louis' smaller hands clutch to the small of his back and pull their chests closer.

"I was terrified that you was dead," Louis murmurs against his chest. "I couldn't lose you, too."

"I was scared, too," Harry moves back a bit so that he can look properly at Louis' eyes; they're still as beautiful and full of life as he remembers. "You're all I have left."

Louis leans upwards and presses his lips against Harry's briefly, "I wasn't going to forgive myself if The Movement took you and Zayn. I couldn't."

"Even if they did, it wouldn't have been your fault." Harry traces his thumbs under Louis' red-rimmed eyes, he can still see the pain hidden in his disarmingly azure irises, can feel it in the way that Louis clutches desperately to him like he's on the brinks of disappearing. "Zayn's death isn't your fault, either."

"Excuse me, Lou," Niall's brogue forces them out of their reveries. "But we still need you to speak to some people, and they said they can take you to your Mum."

They detach from their embrace, and Louis clutches to his hand tightly, "Harry's coming with me."

Niall shakes his head, and it's only then that Harry notices that he looks like he's about to cry. "Believe me, you want to be alone for this conversation."

Louis looks at Harry, jaw tightening decisively like he's ready to argue with Niall until he gets his way, but Niall cuts him off, "Listen, this is really urgent, and the faster you cooperate, the faster you get to see your family. Please, Lou, just do this for me."

Louis looks at Harry in hesitance before taking one step forward to the ebony skinned woman that has emerged into the room while he and Louis were reuniting, "I don't like this."

Harry gently shoves Louis forward, "I can hold my own," and the peculiar thing is, Harry actually believes himself.

With one final kiss and a small kick at a shard of broken glass from Louis, he is gone with the tall woman leading him away. Harry swallows around the blooming happiness in his throat, wanting to laugh at how absurd he's acting. How can he feel so sad at one moment and so elated the next?

"So, it's just me and you --" Harry begins to make a small joke, but he stops himself when he realizes that Niall is hunching in on himself, pale hand wiping angrily under his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I didn't believe it," Niall says, voice thick with tears. "They told me that he was gone and I just didn't believe it."

"What are you," Harry takes a tentative step forward, "what're you on about, Niall?"

"I told him to wait. I kept pushing him away and telling them that he would understand everything one day but that day isn't going to come. He blamed himself and the government, but it wasn't their fault, it was mine."

Niall sits down on the tattered couch, pulling his skinny knees against his chest and letting a small sob force it's way out of his trembling lips. Harry sits down precariously beside him, reaching out to run his hand across his back. He remembers one of his last conversations before everything went to shit, where Zayn looked at him and vaguely said you know him before leaving. Niall.

"Was Zayn," Harry cleared his throat. "Was Zayn your mate?"

"No," Niall cried. "I wasn't assigned to anyone, but I loved him so much. I miss him so much. I didn't think that he was actually dead, I--"

"I'm so sorry," Harry whispers, even though it's an empty phrase to say.

"I don't like that," Niall confesses. "I didn't like it when people told me they were sorry that my Mum died, and I don't like that they're sorry for Zayn dying. It's like they regret that their epic story had to come to an end, and it's not bad. Death is a beginning, and I know that, but I just wish that I could have shown him this beautiful place, that he could know that I wasn't rejecting him because of who he was, but because of what I had to hide. I wanted to begin again with him, but he's gone. I never even got to say goodbye."

Harry looks up at the ceiling, and he doesn't know why he starts to cry -- he just does. Maybe Niall is right: maybe Gemma, his Mum, Dusty, Liam, and Zayn are beginning again. Maybe death isn't as imminent and punishing as he thought. But that doesn't make him stop missing everyone, that doesn't make him not want to see them again and tell them what he loves about them. Just because they cease to exist, doesn't mean that the pain they cause stops existing too. And losing all of these beautiful, radiant people hurts. It tears at his chest like a freshly sharpened knife, ripping at him until he feels like he's completely ruined to love anyone else.

"It hurts," Harry agrees. "But maybe Zayn leaving is what is supposed to bring us closer together. We can't survive losing everyone else if we don't use each other to turn to, and I know it feels awful to think about the fact that he's gone, but that doesn't mean that Louis and I are. We're always here for you."

Niall turns and throws his arms around Harry's neck in a tight hug, "Thanks, Harry. I hate being sad."

"It's okay to feel sad," he murmurs against Niall's neck.

"I know, but I still don't enjoy it." Niall detaches from the hug and stands. "Anyways, I'm supposed to be explaining to you where we are."

Harry nods, "That'd be nice."

"Alright, then. We should go to my flat and maybe get you some new clothes, too."

"What about Louis?"

Niall stands and opens the door for him to leave, "We will meet him later."

//

Harry pulls Niall's tight shirt away from his chest uncomfortably, shifting on the leather chair as Niall sets a platter of tea in front of him; he ignores the sudden hit of deja vú that floods his veins and leans forward to take a sip from the cuppa. He remembers when he was petrified just to take a drink of something when he wasn't allowed to. It's only when Niall sits on the chair across from him  he starts to speak.

"Where are we?" Harry asks again.

"The promised land," Niall leans back against the chair, crossing his legs. "But you would probably know it as the Fallen Americas."

"That's impossible," Harry shakes his head. "The entire American hemisphere was wiped out after the nuclear fallout, and the amount of radiation makes the barren land impossible to live on."

"It is possible," Niall explains. "The Movement was too busy brainwashing their own empire and playing games with the Unconformists to even think about the Western Hemisphere, but a few rogue Elders that saw the flaws in the new world they were creating came to the Fallen Americas and focused on forming their own colonies. They have kept everything discreet, only letting a few, trustworthy people know of this place's existence, and I was approached by them when I was seventeen. I didn't believe them at first, until I was taken to a hovercraft and watched this foreign land pass through the window. I am a transporter, and I give them medical supplies and tech that I've stolen from The Movement so that they can have better lives. This place isn't unified under one central government, mostly because each place lives so far from one another, but we do help each other get supplies to live. This place is totally different than both The Movement and Unconformists, and we were going to keep it mostly secret and slowly transfer people over here that needed to escape, and then the war began."

"We began to send hovercrafts daily to rescue both Unconformists and citizens alike, and we've been giving them small places to live across the Fallen Americas, there's not many survivors, but we are trying our best to help," Niall shrugs. "This place is an escape, and I've been planning on taking Zayn here once I got my own place and wanted to make the permanent move here so that he and I could finally be something. I guess I just took too long."

Harry takes another sip of tea, nodding for Niall to keep talking.

"I'm sorry," Niall laughs, wiping under his eyes. "I wish that I'd stop crying."

"It's okay," Harry murmurs. "I've cried a lot for him, too."

"It's not okay," Niall stands shakily, inhaling before pushing his shoulders back. "I have to leave for The Movement's territories and take all of the supplies and victims that I can."

"You should let yourself mourn," Harry says, setting down the teacup. "It's not healthy to keep pushing yourself when you're upset."

"Don't worry, H," Niall helps Harry stand and leads him towards the door. "I've told you before, you can't let the 'what if's terrorize you until you can't even function. You've got to keep moving, yeah?"

Harry nods, "Yeah."

"Anyways, I was supposed to take you somewhere by now." Niall explains and puts on his shoes once more. "Come on."

Niall guides him through the hallways of his flat-building, and Harry is grateful that at least this place has lighting. Niall had explained earlier that some buildings are more furnished than others because they didn't have to worry about housing many people before, and they definitely weren't prepared for bringing in so many people at once. There are open windows at the end of each hall and a staircase that looks like it has actually been properly cleaned over the course of the last month. It's a stark contrast from the supreme, white buildings that was The Movement's trademark, and Harry actually enjoys it. He slips his fingertips across the soft petals of some flowers that are sat on a table, looking up at Niall, who is staring at him with his eyebrows furrowed.

"What are you guys called, then?" he asks.

"Oh, we don't do that. The existence of labels, such as Unconformists and Citizens, creates this stigma of inequality between two groups of people and leads for one group to think that they're label is better than the other, when in reality everyone has the same human worth. We have figured that without labels, there would be less tension, and it has worked this way for hundreds of years."

Harry nods and follows Niall as he goes up yet another flight of stairs before opening up the door to a hallway. They stop in front of a door that is composed of only frosted glass, and Niall turns and stares at Harry for a moment, hand resting on the ornate doorknob.

"I know that everything seems so odd, and unreal for now, but you have to understand that this place is totally different than how things were done across the ocean," Niall explains. "This isn't The Movement or the Unconformists, this is something entirely different and beyond your understanding for now, but you'll adjust. I'm just not the one that's best to help you, right now."

Harry nods, "I don't even know what to think. I feel like everything has been passing so quickly, and I haven't had time to even absorb anything."

Niall leans against the door and tilts his head towards the wall, body languidly pressed against the doorframe as he talks, and it's almost hard for Harry to believe that just a few hours ago he was crying over his lost mate. He can see how Niall and Zayn fit, though, with how they're both a bit goofy and whole-heartedly compassionate, and Niall is more open while Zayn is closed-off.

"This person is going to help explain everything to you in a better way, it'll be like therapy, almost." Niall explains.

He opens the door and signals for Harry to walk in alone before closing the door behind him. Harry brushes his hands against his trousers nervously and takes a step forward. The person in the chair turns, and Harry feels his heart plummet in his chest.

"How?" Harry asks, taking a step forward. "Just, how?"   
  
She smiles, eyes soft as she stands from the chair. Harry tracks her languid movements, heartbeat reverberating in his ears and a cold sweat trailing down his spine as she nears him. He wants to run, to hide and try and justify the logic behind how this woman can possibly be standing in front of him right now.   
  
"Harry," she says, voice lilting tentatively.   
  
"But you're," Harry can't handle it, he can't handle his racing thoughts and his rapidly beating heart -- so he collapses. He lets his knees buckle from beneath him and falls against the cool, cement floor. His chest heaves as he looks up at her through the strands of hair that have fallen over his eyes, he feels like his veins are bursting with adrenaline, like confusion is weighing heavy on his tongue. He wants to trace history, to find the exact moment in time when his perception of the past was flawed and how there could be even a small possibility that this woman can somehow stand before him. "You're a Superior."   
  
She smiles, "And you're a Superior, too," she reaches out a hand towards him, he takes it and she helps him stand up. "we're both quite good at fooling ourselves into believing that we are something that we're not."   
  
"I don't understand," Harry says.   
  
She guides him to a tattered, red couch, smiling warmly at him. Harry runs his hands over the rough material of his trousers, letting his mind slowly sift through each thought that evades his brain. She's more than just some Superior; she's his Superior. The same one that came to his house after Gemma was taken away from him and asked him so many questions. The same woman that was there when he was given his job. This was the Superior that gave him Dusty. She always seemed so blindingly loyal to The Movement, like her whole entire purpose in life was to live up to the stigma that stood behind having the pristine, white uniform.   
  
"My mate was killed when I was twenty-five years old because of his support for the Unconformists," the Superior explains, and it's only then that Harry realizes that he has never even learned her name. "My son, Ember, had his tongue cut out just because he was the son of a rebel. I was a pissed off mother that didn't know where to funnel my frustration into, and I couldn't throw away my reputation as a Superior because I was still new and I could easily be killed in the same way my husband was, and I refused to let Ember be an orphan, so, I stayed. It was years later until I was approached by an ambassador to help be a transporter for this country. They gave me a mission that would help keep both my son and I safe, so I took it."   
  
"You're talking in circles," Harry says bluntly. "This still doesn't make sense."   
  
"But it will," she explains. "You just have to listen to me and then everything will make sense. I was put into a division with a man named Bressie and the leader of the Promised Land to scout out the next potential pioneer, and that is how we came across your family."   
  
"Gemma," Harry fills in the blank for her. "You wanted Gemma."   
  
"We did, we wanted her so badly. There was only one possible person that could efficiently run this tattered area, and it was her." His Superior smiled wanly. "Bressie and I were willing to do anything to steal her from The Movement's corrupt grasp. Harry, what if I were to tell you that during your training, you really did travel back in time and inject your sister with a lethal substance?"   
  
"It's nothing that I wasn't aware of before," Harry mumbles. "Listen, I appreciate that you're trying to tell me more about what happened and that you want to help me sort everything out, but it's useless. I am not Gemma, I can't be groomed to fit into the vacant spot that she left. I might not be fully aware of who I am as a person yet, but I know that I'm not meant to be a leader. I'm just Harry, and I'm content that way. I'm sick of everyone trying to conform me into a certain spot and convince me that I am something that I'm not. This place is supposed to be a new beginning, and I want to take advantage of this so that I can learn to think for myself. I want to fall in love with whoever I please, I want to be reckless and to allow myself to learn and say the things that I feel. I'm sick of everyone making me feel so cautious and I hate worrying that I won't be enough for the people I love."   
  
Harry stands up and pushes his hair out of his face, "I'm fucked up, I have been used as a brainless monster that would kill my own family for some cause that was more abstract than a piece of art. I have been forced to hide my scars from my past and deny the person that I am. I have had my words stripped from me, I have been beaten and forced within an inch of death -- I have lost my fucking family -- and I deserve a break. I deserve to not be stuck in this endless round of deals made in the shadows and lies spat at my face. I am sick of these secrets, and to be quite fucking frank, I find it ironic that this world that is supposed to be filled with peaceful silence is probably filled with more poisonous words than the world that existed before this clusterfuck was created. I am leaving, and I just want peace. Please, just let me have this one thing, let me mourn the people that I've lost. Let me rebuild myself until I can look in the mirror and recognize the man staring back at me, then we can talk."   
  
Harry forces himself to break eye contact with the Superior, even though her eyes are flashing with some sort of internal fight that Harry physically can't bring himself to listen to. He turns away and leaves through the door, heart shuddering against his chest as he retraces his steps from when Niall brought him up here. And for some, idiotic reason, he wants to cry. He wants to stop on the dark stairs and huddle in on himself because he's just so exhausted. He feels like he has been moving nonstop for nearly the past year and he just can't go on anymore, he truly can't.   
  
But he has to.   
  
So, he forces himself to keep walking, pushing open the rusted door once he reaches the ground floor and squinting through the sudden onslaught of brightness once he's out in the crisp, cool air. He looks around the barren landscape aimlessly, eyes tracing for any sign of Niall or Louis but not seeing either of them. The sun is beginning to sink low beneath the (admittedly smaller than what Harry is used to seeing) skyline, casting a golden glow on his trembling his hands and making him feel oddly at ease as he stops from where he was walking to stare at the sky.   
  
Because it's more than some breathtaking natural phenomena, it's familiar. It's the same type of sunset that Harry would watch ages ago from his bed, staring out through his window while languidly running his hand over Dusty's soft fur, it's the sunset that Harry would ride on Gemma's hoverboard through after a long day at work, it's the type of sunset that Louis would coerce him to go outside and enjoy before they first kissed. Its something that just hasn't changed, and that's what he needs right now. He needs the familiarity, he needs to feel like there's at least one aspect of his life that hasn't been uprooted and changed completely. His fingers itch with some odd, ingrained desire to want to be closer to the setting sun, like the muted colors and soft breeze is gently calling his name, beckoning for him to return back to normalcy. His mind is in a hazy, nearly drunken state as he nears the building that he ran into Lux at, stopping in front of the fire escape and inhaling the humid, evening air into his lungs before grasping the rusted metal of the ladder.   
  
He climbs, letting the wind's yielding fingers sift through his hair and whip his curls against his neck. His shoes hardly have any traction in the worn soles and his hands begin to tremble again when he looks down to see the bleak ground multiple stories beneath him, but he still manages to hoist himself up onto the roof without any major slip-ups. His feet hit the gravel of the building's roof first, and then he falls forward and presses his palms against the ground before he forces himself to stand upright. His legs feel a bit weak, like he has just been hanging upside down off of a hoverboard that was going full speed, and he cut up his palms a bit when he fell just then, but nothing can compare to the immediate sense of relief that floods his veins as soon as he gets a better glance at the sunset.   
  
And it's stupid, because why should a bloody sunset, of all things, be the one thing that can calm him while everything else in his life is in this constant state of change? He doesn't know why it makes him feel better -- it just does. Harry pulls an elastic off of his left wrist (it's still so odd for there to be stitches there instead of his bracelet, and he sometimes finds himself still habitually counting everyone's words in his head) and uses it to pull his hair away from his neck as he walks towards the ledge of the roof.   
  
He swings his legs over and settles over the slightly cold ledge, staring down momentarily at the slight bustle of people walking through the streets before looking back up at the sun, letting the warmth press against his face and basking in the last few moments of its presence. He swings his legs haphazardly, and forces himself to not think, and it's glorious.   
  
He doesn't think of his mum, or Gemma, or Liam, or Dusty, or Zayn. He lets his mind stay blissfully blank, and he feels like the sun might be setting but his entire life still holds as much promise as a sunrise. He doesn't pay attention when the small muffled pounding of feet on gravel comes from behind him, and he doesn't even look behind when a shadow appears over his shoulder. He lets his mouth conform to a smile when the familiar scent of his favorite person evades his senses.   
  
"Am I intruding on some official Harry Alone Time?" he asks, voice rugged and an obvious smile in his voice.   
  
"Yes," Harry answers truthfully, eyes watching as the sun slips a bit lower under the horizon. "But I can make an exception for you."   
  
"Awesome," Louis sits down beside him, pressing their thighs together.   
  
Harry doesn't know exactly what force takes over him, but he feels inclined to hold Louis' hand. So he does. He twines his fingers against Louis' calloused ones, holding tightly enough with some desperate vigor that Harry had doubted his body even still had up until this moment. Louis grips his hand with the same amount of force, running his thumb delicately over Harry's hand. Harry can feel Louis' eyes watching him, and his cheeks burn a bit with how vulnerable he feels to Louis' searching eyes.   
  
A few moments of silence, and then Louis' dry lips are pressing against his cheek, Harry can feel his smile there.   
  
"You're happy," Harry says.   
  
"I am," Louis admits, and for some reason those two words makes his chest feel like an enormous weight has just been lifted from it.   
  
Ever since the day that Zayn died, Louis never seemed truly happy, and Harry understands. He knows that losing Zayn tore him apart, made him feel like he lost a massive part of his life, and he feared that Louis would've never been his same, outspoken yet jovial self again. But now, with the way he's holding Harry's hand and is more than likely smiling so hard that his eyes are engulfed with years-worth of laugh lines, he knows that the Louis that he knew is slowly coming back to him.   
  
"I have been trying to find you for the past hour," Louis explains, and Harry slouches down a bit so that he can lay his head on his shoulder. Louis' hand tightens around his own infinitesimally. "I nearly gave up, but then I looked up and saw your stupid fucking shoes swinging over the edge of a building. Thought I was hallucinating."   
  
Harry lets out a dry laugh, "But you still came up here to look for me?"   
  
"I will always look for you," Louis' voice drops seriously before he laughs, too. "That sounded a bit creepy, didn't it?"   
  
Harry nods, and it's him that presses a kiss against Louis' skin, this time.   
  
"Hey," Louis says, free hand moving to cradle under Harry's chin, making him stare straight into his cerulean eyes. "How are you feeling?"   
  
Harry swallows, letting his tongue move over his lips habitually. Louis' eyes look sincere, and much more beautiful than any sunset that Harry has ever seen. His pink lips are still shaped into the slight form of a smile, and he just looks like the definition of home to Harry. He might be scared and confused and tired of all of the secrets that this world holds, but at least he has Louis to come and pull him out of the hell that is his own mind at times.   
  
"I feel better, when I'm with you." Harry says honestly. "How do you feel?"   
  
"My meeting.." Louis trails off, letting his hand move to trace over Harry's cheekbone. "It really made me appreciate the things that I still have, after everything that has happened."   
  
"Is that your weird way of saying that you love me?" Harry asks, smiling when Louis' cheeks darken with the slightest bit of red.   
  
Instead of answering, Louis kisses him. It's all tender lips and soft hands while their feet swing over the ledge of a building and the sun finally slips away and leaves room for the moon to illuminate this foreign land. Harry slides his hand through Louis' hair, pressing harder against his lips while Louis clutches the front of his shirt. They detach after a while, chests heaving to regain their breath and a smile playing on Harry's bitten lips.   
  
"Can I tell you a secret?" Harry asks, and Louis nods. "I feel like they want me to be a leader, and I don't want to do that."   
  
"Thankfully, you won't have to," Louis' mouth is open but he isn't the one that says it.   
  
Harry turns, eyes searching over the roof before he finds the source of who said it, "Gemma?"   
  
She nods, and Harry feels like he's about to faint.   
  
Because that.. that woman that's standing hardly a few feet away from him and Louis has the same eyes, same smile as his Gemma. She hardly even looks different, besides for the fact that her hair looks like a peculiar shade of pink in the moonlight. He stands, and he feels like he can hardly even walk. This is it, he thinks, this is the proof I need. All of this was a dream. It has to be. I'm either dreaming or I'm dead. He turns around to look at Louis, who is standing, too, with a smile on his face.   
  
"This..." Harry murmurs, "I'm dreaming, aren't I?"   
  
Louis shakes his head, "You're not. H, this is who I had a meeting with earlier."   
  
"But, she's dead." Harry turns around. "You're dead. I killed you."   
  
"You didn't kill me, chick," Gemma says cautiously, walking closer. He's taller than her, now. "I promise, I'm alive."   
  
She's standing in front of him now, eyes shining brightly and a smile on her lips. He can smell her, Harry realizes. I'm going insane. She reaches out for him, and takes his hand in both of her's. She has soft skin; Harry wants to cry.   
  
"I killed you," Harry screams, he can hardly see her anymore due to the tears that are blurring his eyes. "I watched them carry you away, I listened when they said to inject you. I saw your dead body."   
  
"No, Hazhead, you didn't. I was going to explain with your Superior but you left before I could even come in." Gemma says, her voice nearing the ferocity of a yell. "Focus, H. The injector just knocked me unconscious, and then Bressie had me transported here so that I could be trained to take control. That dead body wasn't me, I'm still here, Harry."   
  
Harry falls to his knees, letting tears fall over his cheeks and panic swell in his chest. I'm going insane, I'm going insane. He throws his arms around her waist, letting sobs rip from his throat. He feels hands card through his hair placatingly, and he can tell that it's Louis. He continues to cry, and there's nothing else that he can do but cry for some reason that he's not even sure of.   
  
"Cmon, babe, it's okay. I promise this is real," Louis murmurs, voice low and in his ear. "I wouldn't lie to you, H, you know that? I told you that things might have not happened the way you thought it did that one day, do you remember? Do you want to go inside?"   
  
Harry nods, and suddenly two pairs of hands are on him, helping him stand. Louis continues to run his hands over Harry's back, whispering that everything is okay, while Gemma talks to him, voice lilting and dipping in the same way that it used to when she would tell him stories during the nights that he would sneak into her bed because he was afraid of the unknown things in this world.   
  
He doesn't exactly know how it happened, but he's suddenly being guided to sit on a plush couch, Louis slotting beside him and throwing an arm over his shoulders while Gemma hands a plush blanket to Louis. Harry can't breathe, and he can still hardly see through the onslaught of tears that keep flooding from his eyes, but he does notice that they're in a very lavish flat.   
  
"If you're real--" Harry starts shakily.   
  
"I am real," Gemma interrupts hastily.   
  
"-- then why didn't you come back? Why did you let me and mum hurt like that?  Didn't you care that we were alone? You were all that I had and you left."   
  
Silence hangs heavily over the living area, Louis reaches up to wipe some tears off of Harry's cheeks.   
  
"Sometimes things are bigger than what someone wants," Gemma explains. "I didn't know that they were going to take me when they did, and when I woke up the first thing I wanted to do was contact you and come home. To make you feel a little less alone. But I couldn't jeopardize the notion of letting everyone know of the Promised Land's existence, and I was too busy training to have the time to come back to you covertly."   
  
"Dad left and mum died, Gemma. Everyone that I cared about was gone and I had nothing." Harry feels his chest explode oddly with anger. "You left me, Gem, and I really needed you."   
  
"You had Louis and Zayn," she explains.   
  
"But they're not you," Harry explains petulantly, "All I needed was you. If you didn't leave then I wouldn't have lost Dusty or had to do half of the things that I was forced into doing."   
  
"Baby," Louis murmurs, "you can't blame her for leaving. I know it hurt you to be alone, but you have to understand that it was beyond her control."   
  
"And I'm here now, Harry. I wanted to save you so much sooner, but The Movement had captured you and reported you as dead a month ago. You're my baby brother, and I know that you've been through so much shit because of me, and I'm so sorry. I hope that you can forgive me."   
  
Harry inhales shakily, blinking away his tears to look at her properly for the first time. Her eyes, the ones that used to always have a slight sheen of mischief in them, are filled with nothing but concern, and her mouth is pulled down into a small pout. She has been crying, too, he can tell because of the way her cheeks are slightly puffier than usual. She actually does have pink hair, which is something that Harry has never seen before, and she looks so grown up, with the way that she holds herself.   
  
"I just missed you so much," Harry cries, and then he's moving forward to wrap her small frame into an embrace.   
  
She begins to cry with him, breath quivering shakily and her hands clutching tightly to his shirt. He can feel the thin fabric begin to dampen from her tears, and that's when he gathers enough of his senses to slowly run his hand over her hair in the same manner that their mum used to do when they were little and would scrape their knees on the sidewalk while playing tag.   
  
"You look just like Mum," he whispers against her shoulder.   
  
Gemma lets out a soft cry, "I missed her so much; I missed you so much. Was she okay after I left?"   
  
Harry swallows, "She missed you so much, but she allowed herself to recover. She didn't die without happiness."   
  
He knows that it's a lie, but he can't bear to tell his sister something that he knows would break her heart even more.   
  
"I'm glad," Gemma sniffles delicately. "I'm glad."   
  
They sit there like that for what feels like hours, embracing tightly and whispering small things about their family and Zayn. Louis seems to have left as soon as Harry accepted that this isn't a dream, leaving for the two of them to face their internal demons alone. Gemma begins to hum the melody to some song that Harry didn't have the chance hear during his stay with  the Unconformists, and Harry detaches from the hug to stare at the motions of the ceiling fan that is working tirelessly overhead.   
  
"So are you, like, the leader in training?" Harry asks, relaxing his head against the back of the couch.   
  
"I was," Gemma says, Harry looks over from the corner of her eye. She's playing with her hands nervously, but when she notices his stare she looks up to shoot him a radiant smile. "the leader was a wonderful woman named Aqila that really took me under her wing and became like a second mother to me, but she was diagnosed with cancer before I was eighteen. She refused to use medicine made by The Movement, so she died shortly after. I've been the leader of this place ever since."   
  
"I'm sorry about Aqila," Harry murmurs.   
  
"It's okay. She wouldn't want to be mourned over, she wanted her life to be celebrated. I just focus on the woman that nurtured me and made me wiser, not the one that slowly wasted away in front of my eyes."   
  
"That's beautiful," he whispers.   
  
"She reminded me a bit of Zayn, she was very insightful and willing to sacrifice anything for someone she loves." Gemma leans forward to grab a teacup and takes a slow sip from it. "I hate that I didn't get to say goodbye to either of them. But at least I have you, now."   
  
"You do," Harry smiles. "I feel like this is a dream."   
  
And it does feel like a dream, his heart is soaring, dancing with the stars and joining the infinite possibilities that the universe has to offer. Gemma is alive, and he can't completely wrap his head around it.   
  
"It does feel like one," she agrees. "So, were you mated with Louis?"   
  
"No. I didn't have a mate, just a cat. Louis had one, his name was Liam. He was my first friend."   
  
"Was?"   
  
Harry nods, letting his mind wander off to the memory of warm, brown eyes and over-expressive eyebrows. "Was, yeah. The Movement murdered him. It was a while until we became close enough to fall in love, but. It just kinda happened."   
  
Gemma hums, "I think that's why I hate The Movement so much, you know. All of the senseless deaths and bloodshed. The torture and the lives that are permanently altered just so that they can exert power. It's idiotic, and they deserve to be punished for all of the innocent people that they hurt."   
  
"Are you going to attack them?" Harry asks.   
  
"No, I feel like they're doing a well-enough job of causing themselves to implode. The only thing that I am having my troops do is try and save every single civilian from the destruction."   
  
Harry looks at Gemma, letting his small smile that's been on his lips ever since he came to his sense widen. His heart feels warm, and he knows that he was right for saying that he would never be as good as Gemma at leading. He would've let his temper get to him, but she has the sensibility to let fate take its course and focus on helping those who can't fight for themselves instead. She's the one that is stronger than him, and he can't help but revert to the same mindset he had all of those years ago when he wanted to be nothing more than as ethical as his sister.   
  
The door opens slowly to reveal Louis and someone else standing behind him. Harry smiles when Louis looks at him, and starts to stand but stops when he hears Gemma gasp from beside him.   
  
"Cara?" she asks, and that's when he realizes who the person Louis brought with him is.   
  
Harry moves to the side as Gemma rockets past him and grabs Cara by the shoulders. Cara stands, frozen, as Gemma hovers in front of her.   
  
"I thought you were dead," Gemma murmurs.   
  
"Ditto.." Cara whispers, and Harry watches as her eyes flash with anger suddenly, but instead of punching her in the face like how Cara has done to Harry countless times, she smiles and cradles Gemma's chin delicately in her hands. "You fucking dumped me, you prick."   
  
"I think that I'm allowed to make one mistake in my life," Gemma says cheekily.   
  
And then suddenly, they're kissing. With Cara wrapping her arms around Gemma and pressing her close and Gemma leaning backwards with the force of the kiss. Harry averts his eyes awkwardly, unsure of how to handle the scene in front of him.   
  
"H," Louis murmurs, walking toward him with his hand outstretched. "Let's get away from the reunited sappy lesbians."   
  
They go into a bedroom that's detached from the living room and has obviously laid untouched for a long period of time. There is a grey comforter over a massive bed and the walls are painted in a soft blue shade that match Louis' eyes. Harry takes off his shoes and lies on the bed, watching as Louis shuffles around the room, kicking his shoes towards the wall and turning off the light before taking off his shirt. The bed dips as Louis lays beside him, and Harry turns so that he can stare directly at him.   
  
Louis' earnest eyes reflect the window that's behind Harry in the low light of the room, and he can make out the small smatterings of stars that are forming constellations in his eyes. Harry lets his mind think for one, delirious moment that if Louis was his own secular galaxy, then Harry would want to be forever lost in it. The moon makes Louis' sharp features soften in the white light, and Harry can't help but to reach forward and run his thumb hesitantly over the small layer of stubble that rains over his jawline.   
  
"Today was insane," Harry murmurs quietly, not wanting to break the fragile alcove that's surrounded the bed.   
  
Louis nods, "But I wouldn't change anything about it."   
  
Louis begins to touch Harry, too, with deft fingers falling deep into his wild curls that he took down from his small bun hours ago. His breath hits Harry's nose with how close they are, mint evading his senses precariously as Louis lets out a small, tinkling laugh at his own thoughts.   
  
"Zayn was a massive sap, you know," Louis pauses and Harry nods for him to go on. "And he always told me that our lives were a lot like the old books from the Dark Ages. Every important thing in our life is divided up in chapters, and at the end of each one there's a new beginning waiting just behind it."   
  
"That's peculiar," Harry watches as Louis leans closer towards him, letting his eyes close languidly as Louis presses a chaste kiss to his lips.   
  
"I feel like everyone has just finished their chapter," Louis explains. "And we're all about to start a new beginning."   
  
"Are you scared that it's over?" Harry asks, because he doesn't know what Louis thinks. He hardly does.   
  
Louis might seem a bit like an idiotic rebel without a cause, but he is extremely complex and intelligent. Harry can never predict what's happening in his beautiful mind half of the time.   
  
"No," Louis answers, and Harry can tell by the tone of his voice that he's being honest. "I'm not scared for the beginning, because I know that I get to begin again with you, and you're the one part of my life that I never knew I was missing until I got to know you."   
  
Harry feels his cheeks flood with heat, "I think that Zayn isn't the only sap."   
  
Louis huffs out a quick giggle and lightly pulls a strand of Harry's hair.   
  
"I'm just saying, H, that if anyone had to shock me and punch me in the eye and hold me because my mate died -- I'm glad it was you."   
  
Harry lays there, letting the weight of Louis' words rest over his heart for a moment, searching for the proper words to say.   
  
"I'm just glad that we made it out of this war alive," Harry whispers and shuffles closer, hovering his lips over Louis' once more. "And I'm willing to fight a million more battles as long as I have you by my side."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this is it!! i have been working on this fic for fucking 4 years. a slew of writer's blocks and crazy things like zayn leaving the band have manifested into this monster of a fic that is unlike most of my other fics but still holds a massive amount of importance to me. i kinda feel like this monster of a fic is a bit of my heart that i've allowed for everyone to read, so please be gentle to it. it'd mean a lot if people made recs or fanart for it if they feel so inclined. i'll be tracking the tag tommoandbambi if you post anything on tumblr about it. thank you to everyone who has read this, left comments, reblogged a post about it, or left kudos. i want to cry bc i actually finished this!!! i love you guys so much and as always, hmu on [tumblr](voguelourry.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter will be up by the end of this week! Meanwhile, talk to me at my [tumblr](http://the-rose-has-been.tumblr.com/)


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